the time of our rose has passed us,
and we become more bitter by the day
reach out your hand and pluck us, love;
remove us from the misery of these days
~
this is not our season;
this place is not our stage
linger though we might,
we are so much less dazzling
though we recall how beautiful
we’ve once been
the blossom that grew us
from the seed of our names
robed us in a quality,
innate
have we been asleep,
or have we been afraid
to let go, to move on,
come what may?
there is no telling
what we will be
the moment after the one
where we are
what fruit may we bear,
if we trust in ourselves,
if we let ourselves be,
who we are?
~
our bitterness weighs
on the very branch that nurtured us,
and we wilt and we droop in our pain
our poison spreads
we see it,
but we don’t stop it,
and that makes us very afraid.
