THE PATH TO FREEDOM HAS IT'S PRICE, DOESN'T IT?

People think flowers grow because they are loved.

I think they grow because they have no choice.

The gardener waters them with hands that still remember holding someone else's.

Each bloom pretends not to notice.

One twirls and spins a sword like it never stops playing yet doesnt understand the game.

One carries stories inside glass petals too small to control them.

One looks to the sky awaiting justice to be served but easily falls into the jaws of lies.

One speaks of love that belongs to old romances just before they disappear.

One burns loudly, mistaking strength and protectivness for purpose.

One bends toward every voice, believing kindness is the same thing as being needed.

And one...

One smiles.

Not because the world is gentle.

Not because gardens last forever.

But because if it stops smiling, the others might finally ask why they were planted here.

I have learned that flowers do not bloom to celebrate spring.

Sometimes they bloom to delay autumn.

Sometimes they bloom because someone is watching.

Sometimes they bloom because the gardener cannot bear another empty pot.

When the wind comes, they lean together.

Not to survive.

To make it look like they were never afraid.

I used to think the saddest thing was finding a dead flower.

Now I think the saddest thing

is finding one

still trying to bloom