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Irony Of Potted Wildflowers
The youth is a liquefied mass, mottle
The most moldable phase of existence
We are poured into a cork less bottle
An exposed soul with its glass residence
Sky is visible, from an absent lid
And the blinding sunlight is frightening
Ourselves, lost, unknowing our journeys mid
Or the day, salvation enlightening
One day we will be molded completely.
Solid forming, a lifetime of influence,
That shaped our being to grow so neatly.
But into what? We sit in ignorance
Grown in captivity, persona “ours”
Irony of potted wildflowers