What spring rises from the dry and
Unworthy soil, wedged between a
Skin-scraping surface and a desperate plea
For a true and gritty, unkempt earth?
The paling purple eyes all but hide
Themselves from the barren critics of
Stucco and stone, but if they could
Truly see her they would cower in fear
Of her triumphant feats, blurring
The lines between what always is and
What really should be. She calls on
Us all to do more than admire her
Seemingly deadly edges; She wants us
To pluck her and pull her apart.
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