It did not ask to be.
Into a garden it did grow,
And hence came you and me.
Now some live an enchanted life,
Their leaves turned upward toward the sun;
While others know of naught but strife,
And wilt until their bloom is done.
Yet though our weeds be overgrown,
We gladly roll the dice,
And throw more seeds, as ours were sown -
The harvest pays the price.
They wither slowly like a flower,
Plucked without mercy by its root.
For even in their sweetest hour,
Good seeds may still bear bitter fruit.
--Cynthia S., Adult