The petals are plucked,
The seeds are dry,
the earth is ******,
and
I am a weapon with peace to find.

am I a grave?
Merely a passive shrug to life's incessant rave

God truly I am withered!
While I am to console others petals that fall

Is my happiness a smiling face?
It is the momentary death I taste?
When I scar my leaves
While my hopelessness I tease.