Condemned by Zora Marie, this is a piece I wrote for a class this spring. I don’t often write poetry as I often reveal perhaps a bit too much of myself. In light of the coming of a new semester and so many changes in my life, I have decided to share this piece with all of you.

One so young, yet so old of spirit.
Come now through the doors to the past.
See the age-old balance of pain to joy,
Notice how time has shifted and twisted it.
See society as it is, how blind it is.
Notice how the young wilt before they have yet to bloom.

Those who were once to protect
Now trample the very bed of roses they seeded.
Where water was once joyfully sprinkled,
Pain and neglect are spewed.
The young grow against all odds,
Struggling to bloom in a world with no protection.
Those who are meant to protect
Now cast a shadow, blocking the warmth of the sun.
The roses grow half wilted in that cold and barren place.
Shadows flicker as someone passes,
They notice the half-wilted flower,
But all they see is the growth it has fought for.
Praise shines upon the spewer of pain.
Praise for how well their roses had done.
This new strange shadow speaks of their own.
How they nurtured their soft red peddles,
Peddles fragile to the eye.
Yet their roses did not grow as tall.
If only they knew why the rose grew so tall.
The rose reached for the stars each night,
Each night their fragile leaves would hope to touch light,
Each morning that hope was dashed.
They stretched thinner and thinner,
The light grew so close, yet further away.
Still, the blind shadows brought hope,
And yet dashed them all at once.
The strange and unseeing shadows pass
And the ever present shadow stands,
Stands yearning for more praise from the blind.
New seeds are planted to feed the shadow’s yearning.
The new sprout and twist around the old.
The old do not complain, they know the struggle.
The old do what they can to protect the young,
Shielding them from hate and pain,
Knowing some will seep to the young’s roots.
The new thrives under the old’s care,
At least for a time, until the spewing of pain returns.
Still, the old hold hope, hope they have done enough,
Enough to protect the new little rose.
All the while they wilt, shielding the young
From all the poisonous pain they can take.
Time passes and the little rose grows,
The old pulls more poison upon itself
In hopes of the little rose thriving.
The old holds the poison deep within,
Shielding the young from the knowledge,
The knowledge of what the old does for them.
Suddenly, the great shadow before them moves on,
There is no more praise to be had from passing shadows.
The scorching light of the sun crashes down on the roses.
The roses bask in the sun, enjoying the strange warmth.
Then it all crashes down, the sun brings pain,
Pain for what they had missed all those years.
The sun bleaches their weak and frail leaves,
Leaving them burnt and dying.
The young clings to life and just might adapt.
The old’s leaves crumble and fall,
Yet they hold on, as to die would be to fail
And to fail would be to let the shadow win.
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