 Oh sweet flower, how tortured you truly are,
With your tender roots dangling in dry, thin air,
Having been ripped from the warm, moist earth.
You sway in terrible agony as if trying to kick free,
Or retain some unknown foothold of your past reality,
As your sunny world harshly fades to fraudulent lights.
Handled, prodded, and tortured by unfamiliar hands,
You're showered in rains not of your Father's making,
And caressed by winds not of Mother's soothing nature.
Though there is no audible cry of confusion or pain,
Like an innocent child ripped from a mother's teat,
I feel your pain, your confusion, your isolation. www.angelfire.com | |
First 