Flowers are sweet.
Bees can sting, the last thing I heard was the songbird sing.
Friendly pollinators make the flowers shake and tilt.
All the while, you left me lying there buried in the silt.
Buried, buried so deep I would never reach the light.
Sprouting in the darkness was a useless task; Sprouting was only for those who were free.
Laying there compressed by the weight of the soil, I had begun to sprout.
Clawing toward the surface, breaking through that last bit of rock,
peering up at those red, purple, and white flowers let me know I could stay awake.
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