The Rose That Grew Into Concrete

The Rose That Grew Into Concrete

Fragile known to be my birth,

In this steel encrusted world or lands,

Born not as a boy of power and might,

Nor even an introverted delicate girl,

of gentle hands.

I grew from thought,

a mere seed without warning,

Of one mind, a seedlet, not of,

mere mortal harvest.

Constructed in an image once pure,

now cast into darkness,

As I struggle to stay afloat,

in a boat abstracted of sails,

But from the appetite of a martyre,

whose heart now I impel.

A fight I fought unwillfully

and not promised to me the win,

My enemy well skilled, though I all alone,

my patience worn thin,

Body not of armored weapons,

never anywhere to be found,

My only means of defense,

was the reservoirs,

From the torn and ravaged

played-on battle grounds.

My battles have became many,

but defeats quite few,

To kill and be killed, was the ominous life,

that I grew and knew.

My shelter reserved to me by the elements,

Their dependability and I collide,

only means of moral support, by me.

Stood fast, me only, on my side,

That lonely little soldier in me,

Did not coward, run and hide.

Many times alone I’ve reminisced,

Of the old but no not, I’ve ever cried.

The grounds for which I’ve stomped,

Are marred of destruction and devastation

I bear witness to many, of my kind,

Humiliated, lacking felicitously,  degredated..

So alone I must now stand,

In a world full of sorrow,

guided by the corrupt,.

Forced to defend,

My scar barren,

Petals and brothers

And never to give up

        Jim

 All copyrights Reserved to the author of this poem.