Wilting flowers

Wilted flowers Wilted flowers lie in empty fields Days pass as flies scour, Leaving the decomposing ideas to be eaten. The sun flickers as each minute weans by An empty shell of you left in bloody waters. A quiet silence crowding the space your words claimed. The once blooming pedals, scorned by your nectar. Craving the burn you bring into my veins; no longer able to be muzzled A type of silent desire for chaos and destruction. A desire for deforestation. What started as weeds being plucked, Turned to mowing down rose bushes. Muddy boots left on waxed floors, Destruction on the original wood grain that was once admired by generations. Floors handcrafted from trees outside of what I wanted to call home. Someplace silence was peace and peace was expected rather than craved. Pruned roses left puddles of milkweed Each droplet going sour the second it fell, The bitter taste of cyanide leaked out of your pores into its water supply. Empty plots. Pesticides. Ripped roots.