It Poem by Mercia Rozario

It is an inaudible whisper.
Hated for its naked purity.
Maturing secretly in the
Quiet spaces of the forest,
Hidden from the sun. An outcast.
Too fearful to be grasped.
Yet, like an insidious web,
It is there.
Evolving amidst ancient trees
From times of yore.
Don't try to tear it away.
It will simply entwine around your fingers
Leaving vague sensations over your skin.
Don't try to destroy it.
It has a simple beauty of it's own.
It grows back.
Crowned with drops of sparkling dew.
You can pretend it doesn't exist.
Pretend, and leave it undisturbed,
To flourish in dark secrecy
Amongst trees
In the dubious recesses
Of impenetrable woods.
But beneath your feigned innocence,
Remember, for you'll be ever reminded:
The blind may not see,
The deaf may not hear,
The heart may not feel,
And fools may never listen.
But.
It is there...It is there...It is there...