​it's there
 
The small red gas can points
it’s nozzle to the sky.
Thin and yellow, meandering
the message written high.

Behold  
the flying princess,
whose mantle is obscure.
Spread far and wide, her roundabouts
Are wasted and obscure.

You’ll never know her reasons,
the operative neglector reigns,
for one and all who flop and curse
on graves improper chains.

But there it is
Neglected still,
white purple foxgloves grow.
Around the gas can, small and faint,
it cracks it’s metal so, 

of hope
and dreams
and marble thrones,
and parapets of peace,

replace it with the many marks,
mistaken never cease,

of wheelchairs
cars
and blenders.
Of broken landscapes bent.
Admiration knows no bounds,
infinite and spent.