With faded glory, the wet cement lies,
muddied and spewed with gutter waste;
cracks like spidery webs lining the gray, and
moss with soggy tendrils inching forward.
The flower, an ingénue weed of great singularity,
reaching its golden head to the fleeting sunlight,
hoping for one ray to dry its sodden leaves,
and bidding the rain adieu.
Despite the chill and temperate loneliness,
the blossom will cling to the side of the road,
gripping the cement with open palms,
and clinging to life with a grand bravado.
As if to sing, “I’ll be here forever,”
“when the night grows feral and bitter,
I’ll be here.”
And the flower breathes in life.
