Purple petals fall heavily to the wet, muddied, sloshed soil in a small village
It is off balancing, it is discomfort, they fall so heavily
They can be heard for long away.
Out, in this rain, it smells like colors, the way wrong should feel
And more than once things were wrong.
Like a stalking lizard in the dark shadows of a large pine late at midnight
Or the fearsome ring of brass upon a marble kitchen
Just like purple petals in the buzz of snow-covered winter are still so loud,
Everything that was and was not, hummed off tune.
But it is his flower that falls and more than any frightening, shrieking whisper of a dream dweller
Deep purple petals, after the last, will fall no more.
And it feels like wrong.