PATRIARCHY’S COLD SOIL

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The master called us flowers.
He told us to position ourselves alongside your trunk, right underneath your branches.

We were to be the graceful companions that softened the harshness of your bark.

We lovingly obeyed.

 

You flourished in the summer; a wonder to behold.

Your branches were gifted with luscious leaves that absorbed
most of the sun’s light, leaving very little for us to soak up.

We made your well-being our photosynthesis and survived.

 

You were already larger than life, but it was the contrast of our tiny fragile frames against your immenseness
that made you feel closer to heaven.

Your vast shape swallowed the rain before it could reach us, but with the might
of our loyalty we persevered.

Witnessing your growth became the quench to our thirst.

We considered ourselves fortunate to have your protection; training ourselves to expect nothing more.
But your security turned out to be a lie that we had dressed in the pretty robes that our devotion had knitted.

 

When the winds blew furiously at us, you did not calm their voices.
In the face of the tribulation however, we found that we could still stand without your protection.

When the twigs from the forest slashed our petals, you looked on.

But somehow our petals were never completely destroyed; we could still claim our beauty.

 

We would later discover that the story of your undignified intentions was written
in the stars, and the master had always prepared us for it.

It turns out that we were blooming to conquer, not for your admiration.

This beauty he gave us has always just been a disguise for our adversity.

You were never a home, and so we gracefully spread our roots to other
parts of the land where we could build our own prosperity.

 

The master called us flowers;
Your soil tries to reduce us to weeds.

 

Published: 2015-07-17 - 12:04:48