Petals

[Roberta]

The rose, and its petals
ranging from pink to red
are smiling on an
undefined path.
Smiling,
because they have heard of your condition.
And they would like to help
and to give you an hand.


But how? They are made of
only petals,
and they have no fingers.

See, you cannot call Nature cruel.
If only it could help.
But you have wasted it
and now you call it cruel?


You have tried to turn petals into iron
and dew into oil.
Try as you may, this is an impossible task
and you had to give up.

But wounds are wounds,
and they are what remains of your struggle.
And now you call yourself forsaken,
and you walk on your hands
with your eyes tightly shut,
because it hurts to see what you have done.

So now you cry,
cry over your condition.

Keep asking for help,
keep asking for a change.

And can we swap places
can I be you?
Can I crawl into your essence?

Of course you know you are a loser,
but you're not made of petals
and you have to keep hoping,
something might still change.


R.