Lonely among dying, desolate trees
growing askew in an ocean of mud,
grasping to a barren branch
is but a lone flower bud.
Perched, so obstinate in its cause,
a spot of color amidst the gloom,
as a harsh wind of knives beats
urging it not to bloom.
But the taunting and the teasing
and the mockery shall not prevail.
For when this bud should bloom,
is shall be anything but frail.
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