
Hidden in plain sight,
as the middle child, ignored,
blossom in a bush.

Hidden in plain sight,
as the middle child, ignored,
blossom in a bush.

Pining for nurture,
hangs such succulent despair;
unnourished nature.

Cruel world forgets—
hyper-focused on the self,
that others exist.

Scrawled in history,
engraved into memory,
the human footprint.

Dripping icicles;
chilly shards run down my spine—
my whiskey blossoms.