• Writhing away, you sit so calmly somehow.
    Trapped, tenderly upon the head of a cactus;
    showing beauty that the world will never know.

    Nothing to love you,
    hold you,
    care for you.
    Fending away, surviving;
    held alive by the life stored in the thing that created you.

    You are surrounded by thorns in bittersweet agony.
    Touched by nothing, seen by nothing,
    except for the occasional hare
    that runs to you as quickly as it runs away.
    (Almost as quickly as you are known to live and die.)

    Yet, of all the other flowers in the world,
    yours in the most wholesome.

    For just as your life is short and frail,
    you spawn again as a part of something bigger;
    becoming the thing that created you.
    And so the cycle continues.