from what hell do i bloom?
the sun could be no more of a stranger to me
yet my stem continues to reach upward
and my petals still open
to welcome a warmth
that does not come
my being is not photosynthetic
it is a heretic
my existence ought not be watered and grown
but clipped and coffined
yet
planted like a gravestone
in a place the light never finds
hidden behind an everlasting shadow
i keep blooming
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