A pulp of flower is more sweet when murdered
crushed by a stone to its death
unrecognizable by its creator,
his mother, his branch, his roots,
To be rotten and to fall
from its heaven on a tree
where he no longer smiles
amongst the bloomed and amidst the pretty
his fall turned to be
his greatest accomplishment,
death his blooded ****** in the arms of the killer unknown
thankfully the monster came soon
for his vanquishment brought more redolence
than he could spread when he was perched,
when bloomed to his last petal
and when kissed by the ray of a morning sun.