No matter how softly they walk,
treads will wear the terrain
by the paths of least resistance.

In the tender tracks
I wanted briars to grow,
To draw out crimson pain.

Flowers bloomed instead.
Rough hands crushed green necks,
Yet you couldn't hear their fragrant cries, over the pride of adornment.
I know their pale petals fell
On your shoulders, like tears.

Spring torrents came,
soft resolve washed away,
Sharp edges of hardened
granite gleam.
Walk softly over barren rock.