Wilted Yellow Coneflower
This was where the yellow coneflower bloomed,
The vast, dry lands of the dusty, empty dunes.
This was where the wielders burned,
Beneath the brass mesh ball they spurned.
The torches coughed up blazing flames,
Boiling up the cooling waves.
No more fish left in the sea.
Those sharks now grains of satin weave.
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