You were taught to end conflict with violence.
The consequences of your actions never realized.
The memories of an abused child never rest.
They prevented me from growing close.
Like a flower growing in the crack in the sidewalk,
they come unwanted year after year.
Sometimes they make it to full bloom,
and sometimes they are cut short by the scuff of a shoe.
Those dandelions or desert roses while vibrant in their color,
in their own perverted way fill my mind with a richness of life
that I hold to firmly so that nothing worse fills the void.
I try hard to remember the beauty of the colors.
How hard the gardener works to prune his garden,
and remove the weeds that would spoil its splendor.
All the time he laments having to pull up the flowers
as they lay upon the ground.
