In the heart of New Orleans\' railroad yard,
I stumbled upon a desolate regard,
A tank factory, a bleak sight it seemed,
And in front of it, I sat, lost in a dream.
Beside me stood a switchman\'s shack,
And on a bench, I found my mind\'s track,
A lone flower rested on the asphalt street,
Its presence, a mix of dread and mystique.
The hay flower, oh how I perceived,
A brittle stem, black as night, indeed,
With spikes like Jesus\' crown, inch-long,
And a tuft of cotton, soiled and long gone.
Oh yellow, yellow flower, industrial bloom,
Tough and spiky, defying nature\'s room,
Ugly it may be, to some eyes unkind,
Yet still, it possesses a beauty of its own kind.
For in its form, I see glimpses profound,
The great yellow Rose, my thoughts surround,
A symbol of resilience amid a concrete domain,
This is the flower of the world, a soul to sustain.
For even in the midst of factories and despair,
Nature finds a way to emerge and declare,
That beauty exists in the most unexpected places,
And that the human spirit forever embraces.
So let us not dismiss the flowers of industry,
For they, too, hold secrets, hidden majesty,
In their humble presence, a reminder to us all,
That amidst the chaos, there\'s beauty, standing tall. (Yellow Flower) by Courtney Weaver Jr.