Sick and longing the voice called for fresh vegetables
As there were none
I made means to collect the edible weeds under the roses
I looked closer for something better
Nothing was to be found
So I settled down the leaves and blades of grass
Knowing full well the salad was incomplete and poor
Through my chest
Through this ribcage
In the marrow of me is a poor soul, Mother
I searched there to find something of substance to feed you with
But nothing was present
I fashioned a smile from twigs and soil
And fed you your salad
Sick and longing for more
emaciated
ribcage exposed
Lungs inflated
the thorns of the rose garden draw blood
cut us when we aim for something beautiful
Pierce out innocent fingers
We chew meager greens to stay healthy
As the roses grow lush
Through the fertilizer
ground down from failures and poor souls
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