Precious little faulted flower
Growing in
unknowing haste,
If only others
understood
The longing there
upon your face.
The struggle in
the horrid hearing
That you must
always know your place,
The fruit you
harvest
And then offer,
Oft neglected.
Such a waste.
Out of touch and
out of luck,
Will any stop to
plead your case?
Or shall you bide
your precious season
Longing for a fond
embrace?
Seize the moment
that is gift to
Every entry in
your race.
Find the favor,
Yours to savor.
Even weeds succeed
with grace.
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