Twenty four perfect flowers:
blooms open, white, like pearls
pressed into pristine petals,
and they whisper the smell of
sunshine into the lazy wisps
of afternoon breeze.
Beneath them, soil,
black and thick with balance.
It's almost visible to my
naked eye that every atom has
eight jewels on their crown,
and perhaps used libran minerals
as fertilizer.
One picked would not reap
beauty in a vase; it shrivels like
fed arsenic or acetone,
and the flora are lined by
white pickets, quiet knights of moral,
clad in paint that doesn't
peel or chip in its youth.
Stealing the flowers was as simple
as ripping apart your legs.
