pushed to the wall

It stood, back straight, back against the wall.

It stood, alone, pressed against the wall.

It stood, a pretty flower head on a slender stem,

looking like a hothouse plant, somewhat frail, in the harsh weather.

It stood, alone, pushed against the wall,

as the raindrops fell, pelting like metal studs,

hitting hard, like ball bearings.

Still it stood, straight and upright,

trying to hold its flower head up high,

against the onslaught of merciless bullet fire.

At such times, friends are far and few.

At such times, friendship is tested.

Hard times show up the fakes,

throw up those true.

Still it stood, straight and head up high. The flower.