Flowers, you see how they bloom?
Removing all the gloom
Their sight nears and embraces
Mine weary figure
Takes me away like a groom
To metamorphose
The obnoxious cold into serene warmth
During my season of winter
Flowers, they bloom
When you provide not a deleterious touch
When you provide not a wound
When they aren't plucked
Letting them abide where they belong
Letting them embrace their true colours
Whether red or brown
When they aren't plucked
For all sorts of irascible selfish purposes
Oh then to love itself it proposes
True beauty with true purity it poses
Turning sorrow transient
A harmonious aura in the ambience
Flowers look pretty blossoming
When they walk the ladder they curated
It's agony alongside all
If not vanished, definitely abated
But when your own conscience
Disapproves of freeness and is now animosity
When those fingers interlaced
With heavenly grace
Turn into pallor pales
Turn into fatality
The flowers, no longer where they belong
Their peace and tranquility
Now so far agone
It's pretty so it was plucked
Underneath your heinous control it was tucked
Results?
A dried rose, a dead verse
Which one day
Into a euphnious melody, would've turned
A disdain of such a kind
Finally it withers and dies
Their efflorescene
Oh let it pine and die
When your now disgraceful hands
On their flight once so bright, it lands
The only thing scrutinized
The absolute apocalypse
Of their mesmerising shine
Of their once perpetual shine
