(my identity is) not a tragedy

pale pink flower bud
unfurling in the misty dawn
fragile, beautiful, innocent miracle

cupped hands and soft caresses
but poised to savagely crumble
if the situation so calls for

instances of patronizing utterances
of stealthily stolen phrases
an astonished lack of explanation

of how they could be corrupted so
those muted inoffensive blooms
they have not a clue what they’ve done

under the guidance of sinful hands
sharp claws pulling puppet strings
spoiling the beauty of the field

in this field i am but one flower
but for this garden i boldly stand
rebelling against notions of weak stems

in opposition to your detestable words
and poorly concealed disgust
i am not naive nor mistaken

not a tainted girlish innocence
nor a misguided wayward youth
and certainly not doomed from the start

do not weep into our leaves
we have lost nothing
this is anything but a tragedy

thousands of roots run underground
invisible yet powerful
holding unseen strength in numbers

taking hold of weathered concrete
crumbling ancient coliseums
shadows receding from our meadow

do you feel threatened yet?