She is tired of the sun,
and its current heat presents excitement no more.
She seeks to be a flower in the bitter tundra,
even alone in the frigidness, to thrive.
Perhaps barrenness is such a signature of challenge;
desolation, a setback of the gift that comes
with being unique. A polymath
would seek truths from fire itself to forge
not only shapes created from molten thoughts,
but her very own star, with mind consumed.
And it is with these flames that she will be sustained,
and thaw cruel frost that made her roots their home.

Should her leaves shine as bright
as she is in her most austere,
and her measly petals swing
the moonlight’s favor to win a kiss,
she will not sleep,

for what will she be, should she sleep,
but a creature of closed eyes; insincere,
the very soul she fought hard to keep at bay.
She means to live
when everyone falls silent as they die with summer’s passing;
a polymath sings with the winter wind.

— A. P.


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