Blossoms Brown
It came after a rain,
turned cold in the gloom.
They were allowed to bud,
even to bloom,
but life had no room,
so they returned to the womb.
Never reaching the fruit,
they must follow suit,
guided by the flute
to their tomb.
It wasn't supposed to be this round;
shouldn't have happened
until they fell down.
What is
is what is.
These assumptions are ground.
The facts lie in a mound,
of these blossoms brown.