Oh, dear Satan, your delicious
merchandise finds me
tender.
I am a raw sunflower gasping for
clean air, for rare light
to open my thin arms
and feed my beginning.
I could be a generous gift,
a miracle fragrance in the breeze
of a season,
but I was stomped deep
in the Earth, fed on by worms
before I knew how to dream.
When dreams slipped in to my feeble
stem, they were
manipulated, filling my roots with
poison.
Now, I sleep with deadly seeds
growing in my brain, too weak to survive
cold seasons,
surrendering to dark demons, until
spring brings back
the warm light of hope.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 