To Bloom and Wilt, Shrivel and Burst

Flowers are life.

They are peace and goodness. Of the good side and handled with the delicate hands that covets life.

Each fold within thin paper to mimic the natural bushel of a carnation, each petal opening with a pull.

"Ahh!" Devo yelped.

"See, I told you," Tram chided softly, hands atop his own, brushing the tear, "the more layers you insist on making the more careful you have to be."

"You're still holding my hands."

"To see if I can save it, someone asked me for help in making fifty freaking thousand decorations for the End of Year aesthetic this year."

And sure enough he concealed the imperfection, integrating it into a downturned face of Poppy layers.

"Okay last fold," Tram continued to guide...

Flowers was friendship.

It was precision and passion in perfect marriage.

Victory and domination, the last fold in appreciating this little puppet as it sways in the winds. Fate barreling with urgency with each encounter.

Shying away.

Hiding the scoundrel heart that pretends it is good as it produces bouquets. Chooses color scheme to match with hair and light of a spot. Of The Spot.

For paper flowers are the delicate string of commonality. turning virile enemies to something like friends.

The end of a dangerous game.

Hair black as night and skin now cold in death.

Within her hands was a bundle of flowers.

Lilies, carnations, mum flowers.

Flowing white and distinct, blotting from the faded, grievous white of a final frock.

Black stems with bulbs atop heads, whispering in sheets of rain.

Murder they wrote.

The Mother there too.

how dare she?

How should she dare?

Audacious nerve.

To love the son who murdered the little loving daughter.

The flowers sent to a caged monster in a clear plastic cup are bluebells. turned yellow and dreary as they wilted.

Something that could be called a smile passed upon his face when his wilted Mother came by again. If it weren't so smug.

Because he was all she could conceive. The only one who would listen to her talk, listen to her blame him and then herself.

For killing the love in them both.

Roses black and thorned.

Greg cast aside what had once ensnared his eye.

Turned icy and alert to a presence just above his shoulder; a glare too panicked to have any effect.

Besides a pitying smile as Abraxus acquiesced to stay in sight.

Stay within safe range that he could not so simply warp with loving, gentle pink to his likings. Enchant in twisting twines of ivy.

Somewhat like the tangle of emerald green thorn.

"Do you like?"

"Come now tell me. I won't burn it to ashes, I made it you know."

This elicited a turn.

Brow furrowed suspiciously, yet that ever growing uncertainty buried in the cold, weary blue.

"I made it thinking of you. I left you them don't you remember?"

"You're a freaking messed up sicko."

"Blue roses are not natural with your limited energies and conceptions," he replied instead with a smile. "Oh I don't mean that to insult your race, but it is the objective matter of it. Because it isn't important within your interests is it?"

Money and power.

No moral, no compassion.

No rose within their hearts, no life.

No, in a human's heart was stone.

Though could it be, that in the very select, in the young and not defiled, no matter how bloodied or battered... could that stone yield the most beautiful rose?

"You're creepy," Greg maintained crushing the bud or...

So he tried.

And simply dumped it back within the dirt.

"Blue roses. Of all the colors. Dark blue?"

"It means love unrequited or unattainable."

Greg said nothing when strong arms lifted him a few inches off, embracing his waist cozy and strong.

Flowers are love.

They are tense dinners over candle with a tyrant.

A rounded tower with a bulbous eye-like window overlooking the expanses of Earthen ruins.

We the humans, we ruin flowers. We "deflower," assert power over the sighing cradle of flowers.

We're going to ruin this world aren't we?

We're going to eradicate these flowers that have formed us and who we have formed to new meaning.