Something blossomed underground,
unnaturally
underneath a scientist's glass house
one way
forced by his childish clumsy hands
that thought
that tulips weren't like teardrops
and that
growth would not be stunted
by the need
for a blue rose.

Its pollen buried, buried,
not to worry, as
its hand remains a fist
and closed,
to pound beneath the surface,
mining.
(all is discovered in the dark.)

Poisin pollen can't escape -
the bruise is held
within.
Blue tints are forced, discovered,
its chemicals caught
in inky sacks, swollen.
They cough,
blooming.

Copyright1999CynthiaGlass