Curse me, flower, if you do feel the need.
I know you think of my hand as toxic.
Burn me, I am but an ancestral weed,
Never to compete with your exotics.
Those shades you portray, so mystically.
How growth and beauty have come full circle.
You calm no soul, but invite mystery
With petals not of blue, but of purple.
Now, what a flower you have come to be.
So full of riddles. Perhaps a lilac.
Your bloom so bright, yet hard for some to see.
So pale, so dark, so many tints I lack.
Me? I grow from an inferior seed.
I am a nuisance and undesired.
I stay alive, humbly, as a vile weed.
There’s no care or tender love required.
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