Cheek, nose, and mouth, fertilized by the dense despondency of your own creation.

But no flowers bloom just the buds of your own dreary recollection.

Picked by the palms of your fingertips and delivered to your wrapping of a two plied white cloth,

Custom designed with your own black paint.

You water this pallet every day.

But no flower ever grows in a river.

Cascading, flowing like rapid waterfall over your chin,

Leaving a trail of destruction upon your blank canvas. 

It reaches its end.

 But there is no way to rewind what the universe has created,

Trailing down, falling into your dull colored pillow,

it disapears.

It disappears.