So here I sprout
Up through the grass
My face in a pout
As you stradle past.

Now and then
You turn
And look down at me
Just so I catch a glimpse
Of the look in your eyes.

I wonder
Sometimes
Why you look at me.
But then I realise
I'm the dandelion in the grass.
A dandelion is
More interesting
Than grass.

But you continue down the river
Created by the crowded footpath
Beside my garden bed.

I watch you
Stare, maybe
To see where the current leads you.
You only go a few steps further
But not to my surprise
You pause
And turn
And kneel
At the rose.

One might comment
That you kneel for us both.
But let's be realistic
I'm just a dandelion
And she
Is a rose.

You aknowlegde us both
To be polite, of course.
You always are polite
But not everyone sees.

You are there
For the rose.
But how can I blame you?
She is a rose
After all.
Everyone loves roses.
Roses are there
To be loved
To be admired
To be sought.
Pity though
She isn't a very pretty rose
But just the fact
That she is a rose
Gives her
Prestige
Over a little
Insignificant
Dandelion, like me.

I mean
When you compare
A rose
And a dandelion.
A rose is supposed beauty incarnate
A dandelion is average.
A rose is tall
A dandelion is small.
A rose is alluring
A dandelion is just there.
A rose lingers
A dandelion whithers away
Though that's probably because
No one ever wants it to remain.
A rose is whole
And this dandelion has fallen apart.

But a rose has thorns
And a dandelion is soft.
A rose is superficial
And a dandelion is true.

But you
You don't see past
The outermost layer.
You do not attempt to uncover
What a waiting
Solitary
Dandelion, like me
Really is.

So as the rose
Dominates
And monopolises
Your attention
And affection
I shall remain:

A damaged
Mediocre
Ordinary
Little dandelion.
Who will forever wait patiently
For the day
Where you, for once
Will kneel down
To look at me.

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