Minute

Steps thrown into a possible future and

A hope to be comfy in distant land

Minute stress in fields this grand

How yet have I not cut my hands

Once again for blood to flow

From it springy buds grow

Flowers and onion grass shape my tears

Forming a blindness,I can only hear

The nagging of my thoughts to keep up

Petals bloomed in my drowsy sockets

Descending fear in my gut

My eyes now peonys,no longer faucets