Why do you always flee
To the very bright side
When shown the other, the dark,
Just exactly half a part,
Grey scale, of entirety?
You would show to be bright
Sending such subject to the field
Fertile of neurology, a science
Which casts some topic light
Saying it is a question of balance.
But where is balance to be found
When a flower is raised to a gift
And you the victim of the offering?
Half a part was left in the ground
Filthy, from where it was lift.
Right, roots are out of sight; relieve…
So are super-chickens while they live (?)
Then what would you do next
Time a flower was plucked
For you with roots essential
To the growth of the rest,
To the very best of petals?
“It isn’t very pretty like this,”
Would be no excuse, please…
Is it a decaying plant you enjoy,
Its mortal colours fading fast,
While the sun-banished roots,
Half a part of life, though dark,
Are but the colour of life you deny?
