Crushed Flowers Poem by victoria driver

Thump. And she falls.
Gracefully at first.
Faster. Faster until she
thuds upon the mud,
cradled in a mossy grave.
A bumb bigger than her first home
grows upon her fragile face.
I have crushed her.
A rage more violent than thorns
blooms inside me. I could not kill it.
But they did not believe me.
The forerunners of society.
They are murderous.
How could she crush this
young bud of hope, joy, love?
They want blood.

It is quiet now. Here in my
iron pen I write, faster than the wind.
Trying to replant my life, and move away from
the flowers I have crushed.