Despair Is Only That

bouquet enclosed within a cage of bones,
its colors peeking out beneath the flesh.
flower children of the sun, overgrown
with rose thorns of the not-too-distant past.

sadness does not paint with leftover scars,
how wrong the world is—believing it’s art.
the petals are not beauty marks, they are
mere signs of life: the little left in search

for a reason to keep growing. its roots
clawed into untilled soil, she stands crooked,
misprinted; a mistake by His fruit
of labor, like man’s first bite into red.