Dandelion

A humble dandelion,
Growing, Blooming, Closing, Flying,

It’s seed must be planted under the soil,
For in this dark, it first must toil,

Through struggle and strain it will reach the sun,
After forgetting of it’s existence for so long,

Tall and mighty up it shoots,
Equally growing, stronger roots,

Here on out if can fully bloom,
A lions mane, the size of the moon,

Then closing and going within,
It see’s it can be anywhere, anything,

So it chooses to be able to fly,
With the next wind, it’s off into that sky,

Going wherever the wind may travel,
Landing in lush soil to rocky gravel,

Continuing this process over and over,
It travels from Uluru, to the White Cliffs of Dover,

But for it’s perseverance this little seed,
Has grown into an outcast of flowers, a weed,

Flowering in pavements to simply add colour,
To the dim of mind, is simply a bother,

Standing out, being where it shouldn’t,
Who’s to say it’s not allowed, or couldn’t?

The roses and daffodils stay in there perfect beds,
Dandelions dare to go, where no other flower, treads.

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