She dreamt once that she was a rose,
Beautiful, fragrant & the most beloved of kings.
She woke once to find she was a daisy,
Whose loveliness unworthy of a song to sing.
Her heart grew heavy in her chest,
And her spirit fell downtrodden,
She swayed alone, unnoticed by any,
A simple truth she had forgotten.
The thing about pretty flowers is,
They get plucked from their roots & brought indoors.
And it’s there we ask they live out their lives,
Very quietly, very beautifully, & growing never more.
But the wildflower knows the sway of the wind,
And its petals the warmth of the sun.
It spends its days stretching up towards the light,
Roots deepening right up ’til its last day is done.
Now she dreams of being that daisy,
Living wild & free & young.
She worries not of those who might contain her,
And in the breeze she hears a new song of beauty sung.