alone, in the loneliness of solitude
i have nothing to offer,
save the loneliness of captivity.
contrasted against the filth, a small garden.
snarled rose bushes planted by the residents.
i can offer you roses.
i secreted a few blushing rose heads.
in the pocket of my denim coat
from the garden past the watchers.
plucked petals separate like families.
pressed between the white pages of my journal.
how many years will they remain captive?
ironic, how the petals are confined.
yet, the nostalgic aroma of summer lingers.
even in their lifeless form they possess beauty.
what about the gardeners who planted the flowers,
were they once beautiful too?
are they any different than isolated petals?
if i sent the dried flowers to you
would you be saddened
that the petals are no longer a rose?
what about the prisoners
living in friendless cages
that nurture the flowers,
are they human?
are you?
am I? | KS
KOSAL SO IS THE SON OF A REFUGEE MOTHER FROM CAMBODIA. HE WRITES BECAUSE IT ALLOWS HIM TO EXIST IN THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE.
