Beneath the bridge where needles hold the pain—
Where someone chased the numbness through their vein—
A dandelion shoulders through the stone,
Yellow as a bruise, and holding on.

In alleyways where shadows feast,
The rats compose their masterpiece—
Their scrabbling paws, their savage art,
The squirming at the city’s heart.

The homeless man’s calloused palm
Holds more weight than any psalm—
A rune the wealthy cannot read,
A tongue the fed will never heed.

Beauty blossoms where it’s banned,
In shattered glass and broken hand,
Where polished shoes refuse to tread—
The dandelion crowns the dead.

So mock the rose that costs a fortune—
Wild beauty shuns its measured portion
Of praise or frame or gallery wall,
Needs only dirt to rise—and grace to fall.