Those beautiful flowers, I envy
People get to pick them at a glance
They usually have thorns
They never would have mind

What it feels like to be a ****
When forces of cliches
pull you out of hate
A pride that burns like a weep

could this be a mayday haste?
or just another fate doomed to be upstaged
The elbows that are fused
And the unforgotten triangles of loops.

Nonetheless we know.
With all the drums of war
And the roots beneath the willows-
Though large it may sound!

Misplaced and Escaped-
written in the naysayers hand
And a smile that doesn't at all rhyme.
Sure we all have died somehow

But this is the only place
A folly tree can fly.