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Collapse of the Wildflowers Fading into the sunshine, defeated dreams bend Until the passion, red with

struggle, succumbs. The drops of a pale, cold liquid fall from the sky, Running into a stream, like the path my life must follow. Thanks to you, who planted red roses on my mountain of wildflowers, I will never write so intently that my hand burns And flows into the oblivion of expression. Around me, the winding ivy is curled about a pole, Defined to the point that exclusion sins for precision. Houses of trees and sun-baked mud cakes are flooded by acidity. My vision, forgotten, mourns the loss. This voice, rare and undetectable, appealed to me. I heard its feather-whisper of humanity and sighed. The half eaten meaning will not engulf my soul again. Blank objectivity has become this mass of lines and congruent angles. Blink, follow, cease to question. A single, arched tree grew in the midst of a field. One by one, the people sacrificed themselves and Reconstructed their world until it became an unbroken circle, Like this crimson rose upon my table. Lindsay Oberst, GA, Our Lady of Mercy Catholic High School Third place winner Easterday poetry award winner 2004-2005

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