The floating flower
drifts
along the ripples
of the lonely river.
A little bruised.
A little trampled.
Beautiful
just the same.
Waiting,
for someone
to lovingly save it
from the uncertainty.
A little yearning,
bafflingly,
for the same unworthy hands
that threw it away.
Yet the floating flower,
though hurt in pride,
shall not wilt.
A flower as special
shall not drown.
Followers
