Safe on a tightrope,
falling from a microscope.
Drowning in a pool of stars,
purchasing our pretty scars.
Writing things on the wall,
using honey and a tiny scrawl.
Forever fighting our mirrors,
slaying those ugly little flaws.
This is how we get our claws.
Like Narcissus of old,
trapped in front of a reflection bold.
Only she dislikes what she sees.
This culture, this society,
they claim to be the salvation.
The Saviors of imagination, the Defenders of the different.
This is a disproportion.
Creativity may be abundant,
but in education it is bereft.
They focus on plastic ideals:
Classics are stripped of bone and sinew,
their contents concealed into bare, boring flesh.
Writing itself is murdered,
poisoned by prompts and thesis statements.
All that made it beautiful,
scattered to the winds,
marred into a generic format.
Do roses feel themselves dying?
Do they know?
Can they sense their tresses wilting,
as a black winter comes to crow?
Such a prideful flower, a pleasant maestro.
A cacophony of likenesses,
reared for beauty,
but also sorrow.
Often swept up in love,
when really a rose is merely a rose.