The Flowers

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Orestes Pluto

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Nothing had made Myop so dazed as the days were an aw away
With pens for the pigs or the hens
That skipped alongside her excited-self
And so did her ears twitch, like the ones of an elf's

In her dark brown hands, she held sticks
Like drums to hum to when she sang
Ten notes for a song or her age
no constraints to her contralto, pianissimo, crescendo notes
As nothing beyond existed to her
Her smile, made up of warm sun and accompaniment.

The stream made by the spring
Behind her familv's cabin
No fever withstood Myop's gathered flowers
No jail cell around the riverbank
The spring's white bubbles protruded as the brown soil sank.

Myop made her ways in and out of the woods
On her own, afoot
Collecting on her own, strange flowers of a gloomy blue
Little did Myop know,
She'd see a bigger strange fruit fall with the breeze

Myop was a mile or more away from home
It was a usual trial but never this unpleasant before.
There stood a haunted cove filled with silence
And claustrophobic closeness
Yet, she wasn't racing anyone's clock

Starting 180 degrees and back around the house
Her heel stepped smack between a noggins nose and brow
Myop met eyes with a man's cadaver
The mummy gave her a purple frown
Nobody knows about this man

Green grass stains on the man's overalls
His head was beheaded away from his long body
But it was struck by leaves and debris, thus stuck
And Underneath, there was broken white teeth,
Biting at Myops intrigue.

Yet again, not afraid per se
With a scientist's interest
She picked a pink rose
The root tied to a rotted noose
Looking up, she saw the rest
Wasting away, she scented the world's horrific hate
Like flowers amongst weeds

All summers come to an end
Through one evil deed
On one morning stray,
Her rose and flowers lied fully awake
Humming, realized, in a different tune
Stanza after stanza.

Simply one out of a million more
Little Mops, drop flowers to the floor
Becoming another last straw or statistic
Of a never ending, aggressive cultural war.

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