The Blossoming

When there was love – there was lust;
Then who blew the bombs – who slew the babies?
Where there was fire – there lay ashes,
If we fell and filled with desire;
Why came the guns,
While we gave them roses?

Who can conspire,
To burn young buds,
Torn from a stem of thorns;
Well, it makes me wonder
…of a sad and sullen death.
With morbid fascination…
…and unfathomed curiosity
Must I be a victim of cosmology
(Or a patent offender)?
Never the less infatuated with it all,
Maybe I have ceased to make sense of it all,
Or maybe it is beyond my comprehension,
Then what good comes of good intentions,
And pray, tell me where is my reward?
When abstinence does not make sense anymore,
Torn from a stem of thorns,
It does make me wonder
…of sad and sullen death.

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