we are under the comfort

that blooming flowers are bright

that they shine like stars in a glistening night--

that they are good and small, like a beacon of light--

but we can't tell what's a flower

and what's a weed;

we can't tell what's dust

and what's a seed--

we don't know if who we think help us are just beasts 

wearing sheep's clothing to the feast.

around us are stars falling, boys calling

for help in a lack-luster world

that wants color so badly

it's scared to look away from the small innocent flower

and towards the boy who stands like a tower.

and we think he's threatening--

we think he's scary--

and so what we do, we provide what we think's a remedy--

but who we killed was not the enemy.