Carrying your truth is benign,
a flower it was, until into houses,
through unwelcoming doors and shut windows
you start throwing them,
to get in.
Oblivious that flower could rot…
It blooms and dies and pollens
and it dies, inside the shelters not yours.
But a truth can be a venom,
a tear, a wet sunshine, a word undescribeable.
Just because all worlds are created in anger, it does not mean everything must blast they way you want it
In your garden, can’t you see?
Soldiers and seamstresses and prayers and sinners,
marching side by side,
as they generalize
Sorting flower by flower
until left one color,