You are the flower that thrives in my veins,
your petals and sugar going straight to my brain,
your roots and stem going from my soles to my chest,
fighting off all the distracting pests.
The youth I have, everlasting like my sorrows and
the chiming wind from the upcoming storms,
threatens to destroy the flower that lives within me.
On the exterior I am tree,
strong and tall as oxen can be.
Inside I am but a porcelain glass,
whispering destroy me, destroy me.
For deep within I am nothing but a single flower
in the meadow of death.