By

Michael Johns

A flower in the cold darkness still grows,
How it grows is by god’s control.
The last flower of the season,
It has survived without reason.
Through the rough and harshest weather,
It can be seen as a sign that things will be better.
Wondering how it has survived,
Wondering if it had been revived.
Touched by the hands of men and disgust,
It still stands not turning to dust.
The water it received was poison,
But the love it saught was its good fortune.
It found that love in the gleam of the sun,
When all people are looking for fun.
Things not seen are what happens in the darkness,
Smoke filled skies and litter in abundance.
Wondering why it has survived,
Confused of why it lived and did not die.
Seeing this thing that is called a flower,
We realize our hearts desire.
Wishing to survive just the same,
To avoid the burning flame.
Knowing life is long and sometimes short,
We build what is called a fort.
Nothing can reach us inside our home,
But we cannot reach out to douse the burn.
Don’t turn to dust or live and cry,
Live for our fortune the love in the sky.