Reflections once blossomed
                   but ideals were cadavers
                                             entombed
in thorns of serrated ethics
                                     now void less.

But streams had dried up
                              leaving echoes
                of rouge images
showing like imperfections emaciated.

Even though a collection once
                           blossoming now vacant.
                   Nothing fades but leaves
seeds of contemplation, to grow again.