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We bloom in the cracks of commuter grey,
Where sunlight forgets to stay too long.
We dance with the dust in peculiar ways,
Humming off-key to the wrong right song.
We’re flowers they call weeds,
In a world trimming edges.
But we rise through the tar,
Write poems on ledges.
Dandelion minds — wild and wide,
Floating gold thoughts on invisible tides.
You can blow us away, but we always return,
Bright little fires in the pavement that burn.
We don’t last, we don’t need to, —
We were made for the breeze, not for gardens or zoos.