Blood On the Brooch
Most of the time, flowers will suffice.
Those gentlest of ambassadors.
Dispatched to disarm the caustic ego.
Trim burrs from misunderstandings.
Temper the burn of good intention gone awry...
To most, they whisper of peace and love.
They're a brooch to the breast of forgiveness.
Conflict and Confusion often arise.
When the blossom stompers arrive...
A brute cannot comprehend the language of flowers.
These are the times when powder must flash.
Bullets must strip the copper from its silence...
Blood must get the attention of the icy rain.
To glean a grain of humble from the ogre-hearted.
Whose every breath wishes to singe the garden.
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