The flowers fall at midnight
and new seeds are set to sow
Gentle breezes morphing into gusts
Change is set to blow, clearing, remaining dust.
Culling and pruning on a windy wasteland
Waiting with palm turned to air, catching
Flowers and rose stems, thorns trying to hold on.
Cutting, spiking, spearing thorns, spitting blood.
When morning arises out of the ashes
blood tides stemmed and peace returns.
3 Feb 2011
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