White flowers of an unknown nomenclature rose up from a dog's grave in the springtime. The Yorkshire terrier was a family friend, passing as she suffered from what the mother had told the children was "a broken heart." The children pranced and frolicked around the teacup-sized grave. An uneducated person might call the girls rather peculiar, sharp-nosed nymphets, and the boys rather rowdy but elegant in their testosterone-fueled mannerisms.
The flowers, neophytes in this dog-eat-dog world, would then come to know hatred: the children picking off their petals for a game, the lawnmower mowing their friends and enemies, and even a few flowers were picked clean out of the ground by the oldest girl—she loved the dog the most, you see.
And then the flowers died. Their nomenclature is God's best-kept secret, for they bloom only over the dead and loved, and the lovers of those dead and loved eventually destroy what the dead and loved produced. It is symbolism—God knows it. We cannot achieve happiness, even in death. One will always be there, menacingly, waiting to strip your bulb clean; to cut you in half with a deadly, possibly metaphorical, blade; to pick you up and move you far away from comfort.
And that is the way of the white flower; that is the way of God.
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Lotuslands All Die (A Collection)
Short StoryJust as the title says, this booklet is a collection of poems and short stories I have written and wish to publish to my devoted followers. Please comment or let me know how you felt about any of my works--it is greatly appreciated!
