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.

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(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)