Every bee buzzes
In a conquest of pollination
And every flower is touched
In a search for something sweeter.
Every rose grows thorns
To draw the blood of its predators,
Its love for a lasting survival.
Every stinger presses
Into the flesh of its opponent
Without the keen ability
To consider sweet surrender.
There is validity in discomfort
Which nature washes away,
The unguarded prospects
Copyright © Mike Frampton | Year Posted 2010
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