I flowered his existence,
As he put it into words,
But why do people always love
to crush and destroy the mild?
His hand was bleeding green,
A gardener's legacy.
But I assured him,
I promised him so,
That I'd find him soon,
Should he leave.
For that hand would bring back the day
I had to trace down -
Today, when I ripped off his roots,
cut his wisdom from the stem
So we would start over,
Regain scents we'd let go of -
Change our colors,
Drink the petals out of love.
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