The End Of Spring

Why is it...

Why is it

that little seedlings

are buried into heaps of dirt?

Then toil and endure through

the horrors of Earth?

Bloom an blossom

into beauty's worth,

only to wither back

into the dirt?

Why is it

that this fate gave birth

to you with

a dearth of love?

For it was abloom

with gloom.

Pricked by

the thorns of doom...

Hell, from fate's womb.

Why is it

that your eyes couldn't see

a rose amongst the lilies?

Your sight

the heel of Achilles,

withering all my feelings.

For you only saw

a girl, a filly,

in the spring.