Poll in. Ate it.

Poll in. Ate it.

That seed they planted

cracked under the earth,

It's roots thin, barely

gaining the nourishment.

Yet the stem a rose

green, the party it joined

above the dirt. The

company there worse

than the dark surrounding

that had pushed and

pressured the initial break,

Above ground they

are all like it.

And they are all

the color of what stems

from the evolution of

years. It fruits there

and briefly begins

to unfold-

but the expectations

were great. And the

lofty flow, er,

shoot thats what bloomed-

could not stay.

It's petals they

wilted, and it's stamen

ceased to stare

the giving sun.

and the weeds

strangled the life

left in their fellow sprout

amassed in brazen

turmoil it has died

in the green expectancy

of it's own kind

who grew with and

alongside. Who conceived

the parts of it. Who

killed when it was too beautiful?