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Literature Text
There was a boy in a garden.
You only cared for the flowers.
You admired the broken cement, you loved the broken glass, you thought hard about the many schisms and craters, and you never noticed the boy following you.
You left little black footprints across the grass, plucked the sacred iris from its roots, and found the stone housing the soul.
It was by the fountain where you finally noticed the boy.
But you only cared for the flowers.
And how you loved to watch them burn.
You only cared for the flowers.
You admired the broken cement, you loved the broken glass, you thought hard about the many schisms and craters, and you never noticed the boy following you.
You left little black footprints across the grass, plucked the sacred iris from its roots, and found the stone housing the soul.
It was by the fountain where you finally noticed the boy.
But you only cared for the flowers.
And how you loved to watch them burn.
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But before long, you were bored.
There, in the fountain, you washed your hands and let the oil taint the water.
You turned your back and let the flames rise.
"I don't want to hurt you."
You lit your cigarette off my pain, and the fire consumed all.
Purged.
When the last ember died, I climbed from the hot ashes of the boy. All pain and confusion died in the fire.
One day, you might come back.
But you'll never find any evidence that you were ever here.
---
Loose continuation of poem, felt like it didn't fit with the rest of it.
There, in the fountain, you washed your hands and let the oil taint the water.
You turned your back and let the flames rise.
"I don't want to hurt you."
You lit your cigarette off my pain, and the fire consumed all.
Purged.
When the last ember died, I climbed from the hot ashes of the boy. All pain and confusion died in the fire.
One day, you might come back.
But you'll never find any evidence that you were ever here.
---
Loose continuation of poem, felt like it didn't fit with the rest of it.
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