The Black Flower

In the glade of the world the flowers sway
To a breeze of social bravado.
Their colors mix and intermingle,
Within a rapturous little hollow.

An easy sway brought on by the wind,
Of an anomalous cultural fluency,
From briar patch to blackberry bush,
The flowers maintain congruency.

All of the petals form an intricate puzzle,
While they chatter in a mass as one.
But what of the flower who's shade is black,
Yet still is bathed by the sun?

The black flower says to colors abroad,
That truth is what the mass misses.
For one so separate can still perform,
A beautifully sad photosynthesis.

"My chlorophyll is equally green",
The black flower shouts in silence.
For one flower determines another's self worth,
By means of trivial compliance.

"To not agree is to kill thyself"
I once heard the black flower say.
"But to agree is worse than death,
For then your color just floats away".

So to what avail can the black flower reach,
In a meadow of strident conformity,
But a hope that one day a kind eye will come,
And see through it's social deformity.

To see that the black flower has more to say,
Than the hollow has time to hear,
For black is a reflection of all the colors,
And holds all from desire and love to fear.