Too many times she’s been transplanted.
Moved.
Migrated.
Abducted.
She never had a choice in the matter.
She was just taken as an object.
She was a flower.
Transplanted from her first home in the rich soil,
Far far away into another pot.
A different pot.
No-one in this new pot knew this young flower,
They took her as odd. She was different. Different is bad.
Soon enough she grew to the fringes of the other flowers,
Close enough to brush their leaves comfortably.
There was no rebellion in response to this friendly action.
They moved her again.
For reasons unknown they moved the flower, and again and again
She was found alien in different planters.
Yet again and again she found the strength to try to grow.
But they didn’t accept her. She had grown.
She was an issue, she didn’t belong.
The flower was confused, what had she done wrong?
They pushed her close to the edge, crowding in upon each other
And avoiding her like a weed.
Was she a weed?
She didn’t know.
The flower tried to fit in.
She curled her leaves, twisted her stem
Even turned her colorful head away from the light
Nothing helped.
She didn’t belong.
In soon time she grew tired of her changed form,
Her green stem now sickly and painful
Leaves drooping and head pale
She was sick.
Sick of the planters
Sick of the moving
Sick of not belonging
They drove her to the edge of the pot,
Her wilted form quivering over the side
Staring at the ground
She could fall
It wouldn’t hurt
Detach her roots, withered from neglect
Fall
If she reached out, far enough
They would all fall
The entire pot
The flower smiled
They would be all together then
Laying on the ground
But they would be the ones who were different
They couldn’t transplant . . .</i?
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©2008 ~Fantome-Squiggle
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Even flowers have feelings...
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