Everything under the sky gets ruined,
broken by raindrops,
whispered suggestions by the passing gales
that soon become promises.
The ten thousand things are busy
being destroyed utterly
this grey morning.
Even now, your bitterness, regret,
sorrow and care,
your hatred and pain,
your worst moments, and the clumping
of shame against your chest
Are being gently destroyed.
All of it already doomed.
All of it, flowers.