One purple flower…
        Or maybe it is fuchsia, or lavender
        Or that seventh colour, what is it?
        Indigo?
        It is the one we’re never sure of;
        The last upon the spectrum.
It is all that remains.
A hemmed in lake of muddy dirt;
Not even the rich, black kind.
This lonely flower blooming in
Everyday muck.

Maybe it’s my romantic nature
Or a last ditch effort at
Schizophrenia,
But I think that flower of
Negotiable colour
Has value.
I admire its tenacious grasp
And its oft unseen petals
Fluttering in this bitter wind.
I admire its courage to bloom,
So unlike us.