“Bloom.” whispered the night.
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The rose, black in all forms, grew to the sky,
Its dark pedals flamed outwards.
The night came and stroked this black velvet,
Whispering wishes of well being.
The flower, guile, yet new not of lies,
For the cunning lived in potential,
Set dormant by the whispering of darkness.
Rain fell on this small thing,
Gently rolling down its pedals.
Dark clouds over head filled its dreams with gloom,
Setting straight to wrong.
It soaked up the evil through strong roots,
Hidden in the soil below.
“Take root,” Whispered the dark sky,
“Deep below my breath.”
The air stood, surrounding the trees that stand tall,
Defying the earth and grass beneath their great canopy.
Their leaves, orange with autumn,
Drift down to the soil encasing their roots;
Their green gone with the fall of empires,
Replaced by fire burning orange and red.
“Lies,” the world spoke through the wind,
Inexorable upon the innocent.
The wind blew, jaded,
The leaves that rest upon that green floor.
“I am your prophecy.” Whispered a man.
He sat alone, beside a placid flowing river,
Beside the rose,
Against the gentle trees who lived as giants,
Underneath that raging sky.
He played his flute,
Its sweet song drifting through the black night,
Stirring the silence and darkness.
This man known as Adam sat,
Resting with his hands passive again in his lap,
The flute that had played its sad melody,
Lay in the grass, broken from the passion of the moment.
The river flowed calmly on,
Down to the walls of a once great city,
Now resting broken by the bank.
As his home had crumbled, so did his heart,
Bleeding to a thousand loved lives.
Grief stricken he rest,
With nothing left but hope.
Beneath rubble of balconies fallen,
A woman lay with silent soul,
Upon the bloodied earth.
Her spirit caught between light and dark,
Her silent scream echoed across the walls of Adams mind,
Yet there he sat,
Deaf to all but grief,
And the whispering of the night.
I bet that cost money.