THE GOLDEN FLOWER
Let the blue mountain slide,
to the pink snow abyss,
let the green city hide
from the burgundy mist,
let the copper creature wither
in an oil painting splatter,
give the new crimson river
for the silver sky to scatter,
let the violet tree tumble
in a turquoise dissolve,
let the yellow hill crumble
in a ruby moon fold,
let the purple sun sear,
let the orange lake drain,
take the red rainbow spear,
lance the cherry forest flame,
chase the claret rain away,
sink the lilac in the sea,
let the amber cloud decay
but let the golden flower be.
THE FIX
Oh what a drag,
to be a perfect
duplicate of two,
burdened with all
the characteristics
of our makers, we are
struck down with their
every trait for our
precise imitation,
once the fresh
dewy offspring shoots
in the new wind, we
rose from the good earth
as one-off hopefuls,
the first day of spring -
"damn!, I'm turning
into my mother!"
shrieked one,
"I'm turning into
my father!"
shrieked another,
"We didn't bloom
unique, we're all copies!"
chanted the endless sea
of petals, washed away
by their own tears,
true, we are our makers,
what we do,
and the way
we do it,
every detail,
passed down,
traced back,
and nobody ever
broke the mold,
never a break,
we're all sentenced
to the same fate and
there is no escape,
that's the fix,
so think twice before
you roll the dice.
Stephen Philip Druce is based in Shrewsbury UK. He is published in the USA, India, the UK and Canada. He’s written for theatre plays in London and BBC 4 Extra.
Contact: Instagram – @StephenPhilipDruce
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