Shall I compare thee to a flower?
Dusting your follies in a pollen shower?
Evergreen limbs stretch vibrantly,
Out of the hot, weathered hell slowly.
Common flowers sacred to love
Cursed to never fly on the arm of a dove.
Growth destined to mark the grave,
Of the closest dreams we ever have.
White petaled stars reaching
For a foothold in breaching
The painted golden spotlight
Of power and futures bright.
Above the valley, upon the mountain,
Where wealth flows in an unending fountain.
It’s easy to forget the common plants
When the shy growth of greed grants
Suffering on the wrong side of circumstance;
The rich ready to squash the flowers like ants.
Loosely based on Myrtle Wilson from the Great Gatsby