The boldest flower in the garden.
The sharpest thorn on the stem.
And as the softest petal starts to harden,
The war between the flora shall begin.
As every flying foot lands on a rooftop.
The marigolds commit their final sin.
And every sould will find an onion to chop,
Much to the nightingales chagrin.
Every fallen raindrop has a story,
A corpseless grave to last a while.
And as the endless details get gory,
The cinnamon breadsticks will face trial.
As they dying recall imagination,
A million children rely on putrid theft.
As the thousands of hundreds abandon humiliation,
A few strands of hair is all that's left.
As I lay dreaming in the cold hands
Of a cold and starving rope,
Charged with the victory of many lost lands,
The crying entities will give up hope.
As the leather angels sip the warm blood,
The reward for the penalties is done.
To caress the heart of the chords hood,
Who learned how to kill the rising sun.
As the pitter-patter of the teardrops,
Blend with the dying rotten milk,
The sugar and the flour mix with the rocks
To form a batch of cookies made of silk.
The bittersweet scars are made of cold glass,
Stained with the moss forged of dreams.
As you polish up the weapon made out of brass,
You'll know that nothing's as it seems.
