Isn't it sad to watch a flower die?
Isn't it ironic that we're so happy when we pluck one from the Earth;
a happy and senseless ******.

Plucking is a lot like loving.
We want it to be ours. We can't just let it grow and let it be;
a selfish interruption of the naked soul.

We dress it in suits and ties, don't we?
It's important for things to appear as though they aren't tainted;
like true love awoken from myth.

But underneath her red velvet dress,
lie insecurities, a lock, and a key, to make sure he never leaves;
a trap for the foolish and the sweet.

The flower wilts inside the vase,
unable to breathe and spread its roots around the world;
love enclosed with foreshadowed defeat.