The essence of unbothered beings
On the faint veins of white waxy petals,
Of a flower who never shares its name
And gets called wildflower instead.
They don't know its name
for they never asked,
clueless of their own game.
It has no traits of affinity of being wild,
Nor a care or obligation,
To fulfill a fate
It never wrote on its own.
It stays on a path or a field,
Or blooms out of crevices on concrete
To inhale the breeze as it deems fit.
Or seep in the sun, moon, rain, and dew
Through its skin, sans a manual or a cue.
It doesn't wish to fight the heat,
Or resent the blue of cold,
To shout resilience or power
To the wind, to be viewed as bold.
It doesn't boost fragranced spells
For the butterfly,
Or spiffy nectar for the bee.
A dream of wilderness,
Or a chance out of ashes
Not on its bucket, just spritz of glee.
And yet, it gets called wildflower
Instead of a name it never spelled out loud,
In the woods of blazed voices.
The act of not being an ounce of wild,
In a clearing where grasses too are not mild,
With an ecstatic need of being different,
Is but the sharpest tone of wild,
Nonconformance beguiled.
An arena of gladiator fights,
Reflectors and ring lights,
Brown iris and blue lens,
Oppose the wind,
For it does not make sense,
A guide to stand out, albeit dense.
But a glide through breezy bridge
To live and exist, and love with ease;
Colors are beautiful but never prioritized.
Stroll in shadows through summers
And pages of parchment through ink alchemized.
Wild but not... Not but wild.
/ 47
: 291
