What the Swamp Made
It is easy to praise the rose.
The gentle flare of petal,
the soft perfume of innocence
that never had to fight
for light.
But this—
this is a hymn
for the fen.
For the quagmire.
For the putrid, muck-mired belly
of the world
where breath catches on methane,
and the stench of decomposition
perforates every inch of air.
Where things fall
and are consumed
not with grace,
but with violence.
Where even sunlight hesitates.
And yet—
from this loam of rot and ruin,
from water so acidic
it erodes the bones of birds
mid-flight,
something grows.
A rare orchid.
A prehistoric bloom.
A flash of iridescence
on the back of a dragonfly
hatched in sludge
and not just surviving—
but aloft.
You cannot explain it
through sentiment.
Only through science.
Through the alchemy of broken things.
Through the black water’s
paradoxical genius:
it devours
and creates.
It poisons
and births.
It leaves scars
and still,
you flower.
I have heard them say:
"Nothing good
comes from places like that."
But they are wrong.
The swamp made me.
And though I carry
the scent of sulfur
in the folds of my memory,
though the fog still clings
to my ankles
when I walk too slow,
I am not ashamed.
Let them worship
the roses.
I will remain
a marvel forged in the mire.
A beauty
that requires
no permission.
A miracle
not in where I’ve landed,
but in where I began.
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