dulcius ex asperis

I hear them muttering songs through thistles nested beneath tongues,
breathing the taste of nectar stained purple and bruised,
where their roots protrude makes no difference,
in fact, it changed few chords.

for it was the misshapen pinkies writing beneath the earth that wrote this hymn,
spiraling downward entwined with soil like long necks of disjointed chord progressions,
digging out stems whose thorns only dare be pollinated by the humble bee.

humming 'you can never be hindered by progress,
and you shall ne'er be overlooked as mere parasite,'
but perhaps they meant weed

and so you were not

and so we grow sweeter in any soil
quietly replanted against clambering rocks and minerals
crushed by the melodramatic ocean
whose cacophony of tears remain still yet tidal
resounding soundtracks for mere humble moondancing

and so it too, weed or flower, remains humble
and it too will be found when replanted by pinkies,
by the art, the daydreamer, the drifter, the poet,
the bees

and there they'll be
blooming from purple bruises,
singing their jovial renaissance
to the difficulty
and to the sweetness that lives to follow

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