The most striking of flowers bloom far out of sight,
blooming softly and with fractal beauty,
they contain the sweetest of nectar,
and the most insidious of poisons,
barbs flush against scaled leaves,
dripping with toxicity.
It is not the pigment that makes a flower beautiful,
but its shape and form,
its tragic and fearsome nature,
it is a lack of color that paints this flower,
guardian of fallen men,
splattered with life,
sanguine as the night.
Forever lonesome,
invisible in the darkness,
seeds aloft on eastern winds,
blooming without reproach,
and from decay it glitters,
and lets out a scream in its solitude.