the haughty orchids
have nothing to confess

they purse their pure lips
pimpling up sore grapes

purpled as pinched nipples
loving pain and proud to show their ache

they have no secret
but their masochism

the flowers hurt to live and live to hurt
they only grow as rooted slaves of earth

mastered by elements, too delicate to last
appealing to the mercy of a keeper

the only answer orchids give is in their beauty
that luxury, a gift of suffering