Rotting flowers can still be sweet Just as the cold chill you feel when fast asleep

When you feel safe in the abyss Or lonely in a crowd, that would not miss

In a coffin, your body warm with delight Or a sweet little faerie who gives you a fright.

The duplicity of man The two faced can

The bad with the good The evil with the righteous

They can be the same thing For rotting flowers still smell sweet.

(Ignore my TERRIBLE writing scheme; haven't been on here because of drama and school and work—I have so much woooork ToT. Anyways, excuse this poor excuse of a poem and thanks for hanging on)