HE IS THE SOIL THAT NEVERS TOUCHS
Pick Him Flowers
Does it fall short, the sight of a man's hands entwined around flowers? The coarse rawness of a man and the subtle, soothing scent of blossoms, society says, can't coexist in the same realm. Biding my time, does the hourglass have to drain entirely before I'm gifted my first bloom?
Isn't it more believable for a man to be given the soil where a flower sprung, before he's handed the vibrant petals that paint our life with vivid colors? Men lay dead, in some distant field of a European land, untouched by the warm embrace of what it feels like to be loved. The wrath of men, the end of all, resting a dozen feet beneath the skyscrapers and the clamor of life. Here, these men rest, gifting their bodies to the fertile earth, turning into the soft, fluttering fragrance of flowers, which will never be given to a man, not until he has danced with death.
The sad irony is the flower's scent, a tribute these men will never sniff until they've greeted the grim reaper. This stark contrast echoes the unspoken codes of being a man. The sacrifice of everything in the face of death - to lie underneath the layers of concrete and the energetic rhythm of life, blooming in silence and seclusion. Awaiting that final journey to bestow upon them a token that life, in all its grandeur, denied.
Does it fall short, the sight of a man's hands entwined around flowers? The coarse rawness of a man and the subtle, soothing scent of blossoms, society says, can't coexist in the same realm. Biding my time, does the hourglass have to drain entirely before I'm gifted my first bloom?
Isn't it more believable for a man to be given the soil where a flower sprung, before he's handed the vibrant petals that paint our life with vivid colors? Men lay dead, in some distant field of a European land, untouched by the warm embrace of what it feels like to be loved. The wrath of men, the end of all, resting a dozen feet beneath the skyscrapers and the clamor of life. Here, these men rest, gifting their bodies to the fertile earth, turning into the soft, fluttering fragrance of flowers, which will never be given to a man, not until he has danced with death.
The sad irony is the flower's scent, a tribute these men will never sniff until they've greeted the grim reaper. This stark contrast echoes the unspoken codes of being a man. The sacrifice of everything in the face of death - to lie underneath the layers of concrete and the energetic rhythm of life, blooming in silence and seclusion. Awaiting that final journey to bestow upon them a token that life, in all its grandeur, denied.