Wombed with a rose.
In essence the smell of death fragranced
The delivery room like potpourri.
Here a challenge existed.
Beauty in mind.
Trumped by the conclusion
I talked to a wall,
Or spoke into a fan
So my thoughts resembled
Here the discussion fluctuated
Between the perception of a rose wilting
And the inevitable decay of everything beautiful.
But I shouted!
Silenced in my venture to describe death
She loves me not.
Time trial of second-hand masturbation.
I concluded at the onset of empirical servitude.
Thinking that God has a plan,
Takes away the pressure of performing good behavior
For the rest of us.