The floret dusk

The floret dusk.

In my garden of life,
I’ve seen this beautiful flower,
as black as the night itself.

Its scent of pure hate
Bleed through every pore.
Blind child of the ground,
Upon which it dwells.

Its roots are firm,
Its petals can’t be trimmed,
And often it has left my skin
A bloodless graze.
Often it has sensed my fear,
As my veins grew black.
Darker than the ground,
On which it is raised.

The darkness creeps fast,
up to my eyes,
Until all I see is the flower
and the fear.
The fear it loves,
The fear it needs,
The hate it makes,
The scent of which it bleeds.

I’ve grown to fear the flower,
As its grown to love the fear.
I’ve learned to run away from it’s scent,
but is a flower too beautiful,
and flower forever near.

A flower so black,
In my garden of life.