Rhyme and Reason: A poet's favorite season

Flower of Life

Flower of Life

I found out what make me hate

It is the insanity in my brain

There is death gripping at my veins

Though this insatiable rage

I slit his throat and watch the scarlet drain

The pressure centered in my chest remains

Until his flower of life wilts and fades

And hither death blooms with such grace

My hate then seems to fade

Until a few days pass away

I then wake late

Just as the moon began to rise and thus the end of day

I hear a heartbeat not wanting to fade

This beating comes from his grave

This grave of which I did create

A flower sprouted right where he lay

Could this be true or do my eyes betray

The beating grows louder with each second I waste

So with no time to hesitate

I grab forth the shovel in a tense harsh way

I start franticly rushing toward the terrain

As the beating gets louder yet again

Then as I shovel up the dirt it begins to rain

As I slosh the now muddy remains of the grave

Whispers arise in my brain

And it starts again I am once more insane

It seems that his flower of life remains

The whispers are clear as glass

And are as before the same

Such a regretful past

It is him whispering he is the best

And with the sound of my nemesis

I start digging more frantic

For the pressure is back in my chest

I get to his body it is no longer fresh

He is now hard and stiff

But though he seems dead

He still whispers in the back of my head

He is the best

Infuriated I set my dogs on the cold body of my nemesis

I watch as they rip their teeth into his flesh

After I clean up the mess

The pressure leaves my head

Although still drenched I lay in my bed

The insanity hides again

Inside my brain

I have found what makes me hate