Pisaries Creator

Maybe,

the beauty of it is within,

the substance I’ve never seen before,

touched it, tasted it, or felt it brush

against me.

No,

it has not come to me,

the detachment,

a flower ripped

from its roots you can’t see

beneath the soil.

Yes,

the inner strength

deep within the twisting,

the force that plucked it

away from its sisters.

Yes,

the stunted growth,

life for a few days,

a few hours,

in the fresh, clear liquid that pours

freely.

No,

it can’t continue,

the dirty surface masquerading

as clean,

teasing and tearing at the opening,

a thick dotted line.

Maybe,

the charm was never there,

above the horizon I see,

far away,

never getting close enough,

no longer wishing to touch or taste it,

or feel it against my leg.