Inverted Syntax: The Flower I Let Grow

Through fields of thorns I walked and wandered
and contemplated their dearth of water.
A wasteland scorned by rain, it was,
a desert desiccated and bled-out beneath a spiteful sun.
But at my feet, a rose I found–
and strewn across the ground, its blackened petals lay
like a summer dress shed to relieve summer’s heat–
and before it I stood, sheltering it in my shadow.
Though thorns of its own the burnt rose bore,
I tore the weeds surrounding its withered stem.
And from the blazing sand, its body I exhumed,
its sharp limbs stabbing my cold, callused hand.
Deep into my palm grew its parched, ailing roots
and my blood it drained as a means to regain
the strength in its sickly stem
and the colour of crimson back to its wilted crown.
The pain this brought, I could not bear
and with despair, this flower I found
was returned to the ground
by my hand still stuck with thorns.

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