Late Bloomer

But the flower could not reply,
For she was weary,
Weary of struggle,
Weary of pain and fear,
Tired of the brave, determined
unnaturally bright facade
she presented to the world.
Tired of fooling and feeling
the hurt of the years.
Wrong place at the right time,
Right words at the wrong time
She yearned to reply,
To pour out the very atoms of her existence,
and purge the pain that was the sap of her strength.
How could she ever be seen or heard?
Tiny forgotten Rose among the brambles.
Never aware of her own special beauty,
Her illuminating brightness,
Interminable courage, and survivability
Against the odds.
Life's winners surrounded her,
The chosen Ones,
Earth prepared and ready-tilled for
their comfort and assured success.
Compete?
The late bloomer settled back with
the sultry sunset, sadly secure
with her roots set in sackcloth and ashes,
her barbed thorns for protection,
and nestled into the comfort of the brambles
she felt would finally choke her.
ESCAPE?