Bitter root ( free flow writing poemish metaphor thing)

It was a rounded seed,

Perfectly shaped, dark brown in color,

Warm to the touch, satisfying to feel,

Full of life and potential.

It was one of the rose cherry,

A new mixture created by the cutting edge,

and old wise farmers,

Working in harmony.

An amalgamation of roses that upon the tongue were as cherries,

and branches bearing fruit with the scent of roses,

An intoxicating mixture to overwhelm the senses.

And fatten pockets of smart rich men.

Our little rose cherry seed however,

Was taken up by the birds, A crow, or perhaps it was a raven,

Too fast to stop coming in,

But not fast enough to escape to safe haven.

The seed did fall barely a kilometer away,

Carried crashing by injured wings,

Until it fell about by a little sewer drain,

Where it should have died.

Alas, it was a broken construction,

surrounded by dirty sludge seeping out,

Ignored by all, but never cleared,

Dirt and grime and toxic things brought by the rains to the top.

Here the rose cherry seed should have died,

Too gentle for that harsh land,

But fate had set other plans,

and the crows blood did feed it.

From its blood did the little seed find,

nourishment enough for those first few days,

to have roots that dug into the mud and half rotted,

and others that barely touched fertile soil, safely stowed away.

It would be an embellishment to say,

That the rose cherry did grow in that soil,

It stayed alive, that was all,

Bent and twisted in little crooked ways.

In that soil did the cherry rose grow,

and in that soil did the cherry rose survive,

It's seeds rotten to the core,

Unable to spread its child.

The fruit that it did bore had smudges of grey,

and the roses did never bloom,

If any one daring or foolish enough would taste the fruit,

They would find a rancid bitter taste, borne by bitter roots.

Now you tell me,

Was there any point,

To the rose cherry seed,

The rose cherry plant,

The rose cherry tree,

That grew to be nothing?

To do nothing?

To give nothing?

and to create nothing?

Was it enough that it had lived a life?

Even if it was nothing that was meant to be?

Only alive for the sake of living?

A need so deeply ingrained,

That none can escape it?

I would like to think so,

Maybe the rose cherry tree would too,

Sometimes there is no rhyme or reason,

And all we can do is persist.

Maybe one day the rose cherry tree would be found,

and saved from fates cruel hand,

or maybe one day it will grow strong enough,

To bear strong fruit that's sweet enough for the land.

Who knows.

I don't.

The rose cherry tree still blossoms every spring,

and maybe that's all the point that's needed.

Or maybe I am just foolish enough,

More foolish than the rest,

To see the rose cherry tree,

With rose tinted glasses.

You decide.

Don't tell me.

I have my own answers,

and that's good enough for me.