A spring breeze rolls with fog through the forests
singing through a night that seems endless.
Dead flowers, unbeknownst where wind sends us
can't help but falter beneath blown torrents.

You were beautiful, sculpted like marble,
then given an eternity in spring.
How nice to not know what frost will bring,
freezing petals, a dying ensemble.

You couldn't help but to only murmur
despite how badly you wanted to scream,
eyes glossing over, they no longer beamed.
Your hand, like your heart, losing it's fervor.

A thousand flowers will consume your grave
and you'll die, never finding what you crave.