Between the fissures of our existence,
there is a moment where we must all
decay into a garden of eternal beauty.

But for us to collect on the petals of
our demise, we must surrender.
Yielding to our fears of eternal silence.

We are all but a breath from our inevitable
decay, but we still try to water dead roots
that'll never grow again, dead flowers to ash.

Were prettier when were still, vacant allotments
of thought that'll never regrow. Where just a
moment of death consumed to never live again.