Poem: Fleur

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Fleur

Foreign in its simplicity,
the flower blooms in the quarry,
a rebellious thing,
almost stifled by grey slate and fallen stone.
A color less strong
than persistent.

About this poem

The demons live. The battles go on. I am less strong than persistent. Prosaic perhaps, less heroic, but all in all, effective.

I live across from an abandoned slate quarry. In the warm seasons, wildflowers abound.

Tom

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