He planted the seedlings
with an auspicious smile,
painted the paper
with his words from Cupid,
walked the soil
drenched in soot,
and night might loom large,
but his day bright as it may

he knew for himself
that the plant would climb the sky,
his painting overflow would, with emotion
and the soil, though poisonous, turn *****'s venom into sweet delicacy

but unfair as it ever could be
the rose amorphous, wilted and tumbled back down,
the canvas' face contained not his emotions,
and the soil, though now sweet, was filled with locusts

effort futile, scampering tragedy,
wayward emotions of love and apathy,
war against self, cry for despairing hope

he knew not of roses, paintbrushes, nor rocks,
for he knew love,
and was left despaired.