Beneath my feet, a flower stands alone. It beckons to me.
I twist the stem, freeing it from its clinging roots,
Caressing the final joyous moment between my fingers.
But to what ends?
I look in every direction.
And the field I stand in,
The prosperous field,
Is a barren wasteland.
The fruits of my labor. The carnage of my joy.

And that is why

I've decided

I must

Become the flower.