A flower in a garden that’s treated like a weed
And gathers no attention nor garners any heed
It soaks up what is left or can wither in the brush
Or bides its time in silence with ne’er a need to rush.
A hardy sort, of course, that will weather every storm
And seizes on each moment that bides without a form
While there among lost shadows of times we never dreamt
Lie memories forsaken, abandoned or unkempt !