She grows in gardens long neglected
by prophets practiced in heartbreak.
Gardeners played God with her body; then
ate of the roses that grew on her back
“Supposed to be wings,” she scolded them
cried that she could not reach her peak,
“Love me better,” thought enough roses would
aid in her climb to find what she lacks
then found that from out of their hearts
melted picks to mine from her rocks.
They found value in what she desired, now
the cliff is a hill she can walk up instead.
About the Creator
Branden Navedo
I've mostly written poetry all my life which carries into my other writing. I also love wandering, so if you tell me to get lost I'll gladly oblige. In other words, yes, I respond well to criticisms. Click here for my author website!
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