A delicate flower, born untouched by the harsh winds of the world. A free-flowing, light flower, one that never looks at the world and thinks "Am I enough?" A flower that furls in the wind, her gentle manner of peace and calm fluttered to the wittled petals of the lost flowers, of the flowers stamped of their delicacy by the world. The little flower is moved with the inescapable chaotic winds of the earth, looking for a soft place to land. All these people keep coming and twirling her around, it's above her, below her, and then she's on the ground. She's shaken around and around and stared at, like an alien probe. The wind's overwhelming, defeating every sound. The trees whisper in a gentle autumn night, about rumors that are coming with the dark and dusty fight. She busies herself with anything other than the slow descend of the fight with the spirits in her brain. But in the end, it does nothing to amend her brokenness. So hold her until the night falls, for she's fragile and frail, like a delicate flower
