"Hardly the most,"
said the wisp to the ghost,
as they proposed a toast to the end of their days.
"Once lost, twice poisoned,"
lamented the withering roses,
with their thorns pricking those who had given up on their purpose.
Here hangs a garden of all that is worthless,
with tendrils that seek the necks of poor souls.
Drooping from branches like abandoned puppets,
without an audience to take in the show.
Death sows seeds where no plants grow,
but the dead tread there, and they want you to know
that no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you learn;
everything is flammable,
and one day you'll burn.
Don't read into it.