The Highest Bloom

Because you are paralyzed, 
wounded but loved, you were given
voice, a song of struggle, 
a singing shadow.

It doesn't matter you're different,
like purple striations on wildflower
or albino moths whose moonlit wings
attract night birds

to swallow them whole.  

Perhaps you're a messenger 
and no one is listening.  Like
hearts when the body stops
breathing or prayer memorizing

well-rehearsed words.

It's not as if you understood the value
of punishment, the purpose of
suffering, the meaningful beauty
of resting ever so lightly

on the highest, most dangerous
bloom in the field.

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