Cement Knoll

Life is a coming thing;
it goes where it says
and can bring lives a hardship.
When it peers through the canal
it thinks it’s the entrance to grass,
to flowers and its smell of pollen spring.
It doesn't know what it is.
It’s naive and can’t tell the blooming
is just a mask.
It doesn't know the reality yet
but it will.
When it gets taller and matures
it’ll flow like wine and feel that pressure
that those grown already know.
Born like the fizzles of a drink
going down the wrong drunk’s mouth
acquainted with that misery
that is reality,
that is hardship.
You, the it, your life may be lucky
and birthed into that grass
held together by flowers and masks,
but likely not.
It’s not that blooming land,
but instead a cement knoll.