Posted by: Devin | December 18, 2013

The Man Wilting On the Bench

(very rough at the moment)


The man wilting on the bench…
Is he dying, crumbling, 
or have his roots gotten down too deep, 
chaining him to a world whose freedoms 
are not for him to know. 

Had anyone tried to cry upon him, 
to see if tear water is what he needs. 
Or are they already planning on chopping him down, assuming no hope right away, 
yes, chop him down. 
A useless bundle of leaves and debris. 

Rain may clean the city, eliminate all this filth. 
So new plants can grow tomorrow, 
young, healthy, strong and pretty. 
You see, their flowers won’t fade, they’re only buds now. 

Little wisps of the strong, diving lilies and roses they’re shaking right here. 

Each plant a perfection. 
Selected for, evolution, man made perfection… Even our flowers are too weak. 

Too short. 
Too pale. 
Too thorny. 
Not pungent enough. 
This one is infected, I’ll crush that up myself.

I don’t get it! What went wrong! We handled them perfectly, they were bred to be winners, successes in life. 
BUT NO. They just wilt… And they rot… Because they just don’t know how to keep their heads up through the pain. 

Through the snip trimming, severing limbs and thorns 
The infections, they try to hide, but oh, they notice. They always do notice. And the big can with the funny hose comes along, spreading in their faces, those toxins that make them flowers tremble and their roots twist in pain. 

But because they’ll be beautiful, bleached, colored within… The perfection comes at the high cost that is judgment and death.


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