The flowers sway with the ever pressing wind, and the dust dances around them.
It leaves their delicate silhouettes reaching for freedom.
A trained figure prances around their patches of life, examining.
But their gentle beauty seems to offend the caretaker's pride.
The small roundness of their petals hardly compares to the bright convulsion of the others.
Their untrained bodices reach toward heaven, but rarely catch the sun.
The others are chosen, and taken.
They are left, alone.

Day after day, the sun withers their shrunken, reaching ligaments.
And day after day, their small petals unravel their mysterious and patient beauty.
They wait for the figure to appreciate their smallness, their insignificance.
The nights are long, and continually occur.
And still, they are left alone.

Today, it is 31° F, and the reaching petals no longer exert force.
Their withered souls sigh in completion.
Tonight, the dirt is left alone.

Tomorrow, the figure comes searching.
The smallness of their beauty is gone,
and he weeps for ignorance and shame.
His tears form a salted mud in the dirt,
and the souls of those quite beauties sing of second chances, and a coming Spring.

I sing the song with them.
It's the only thing I can do.

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