Paralyzed Petals

Welcome to the circus of discrimination- where soft subtle glances and fragrant touches of femininity are burnt in ashes, through howling rays from the sinister sun, triggering wildfire chaos, conquering and controlling roles of women; endlessly shape-shifting from predatory postures of pretend protectors, that twist and turn tangled heartstrings from a patriarchal pantomime of their treacherous charade, obnoxiously oppressing obscured boundaries, with their art of arrogance, placing labels upon our need for freedom as sheer ignorance of aliens aspiring for acceptance. But what if there was more to a flower, than to be left- dreamlessly paralyzed in puddles of poisoned petals? Is there no wind that can wash away wounds of the world engraved as a secret symphony of sorrow, within sepia sepals? Will storms carrying songs of a suppressed soul be forever heard as forced dreams? Mimicking motionless mountains, silently static, mistaken for serenity, whilst enchanting hills draped in olive green silk are confused as gilded stars in worn novellas, streaming rivulets of emerald lakes, where manuscripts of tears are apprehended as melodramatic melancholy. Oblivious to the wilderness, where words whirl as poetic prophecies, descending as theatrical thunder, striking upon abandoned entities of earth, eclipsed with fingerprints of love lingering liquid fears of a female fighter, rising above acrobatic tyrants— for maternal daffodils are lions, glazed in an idle arias, composing battles using only words as weapons.