The Last Flower
was planted on the ledge of a precipice
smothered in moss, lush and
slippery
by a selfish man
as most men are
he did not want anyone to reach
his frail violet legacy
people have climbed and climbed
cut new muscles at torrid altitudes
darkened their shirts with sweat
some wanted to pick it, spitefully
some wanted to sniff it, desperately
one man wanted to speak to it
because nobody else
would speak to him
did he exist (?)
the last flower
is kept alive in our minds like
the smell of our grandmothers' living rooms
the first time we sampled chocolate
the time when
we realized our hearts
are for more than breathing
you will see it
right before you open your weary blue eyes
one final time
and you will see me
touch my hair, try to capture my soul
settle for my heart instead
you will see it--
there
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