Wallflower
On the edge she sits, a frail nonentity;
neither bloom nor spirit nor secure identity,
as forlorn and shy she trembles, a man
asks her to dance, she must decline.
She struggles with an careworn heart,
out of control, O what a dreadful toll!
How shall she reform her hapless pose
so that, carefree, she may blossom like a rose?
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2006
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