everyone was scared to come to the gardens
it became quiet after summer died here

winter sings a sweet song: 
but he is draining color 
and blooming bruises. 

 but he whispers "baby this time it'll be different"and he will kiss it better with bouquets he plucked from you 
summer, it's a lie. he will do it again. he will turn your golden summer skin to brass 
he will tell you love is supposed to make you brittle
you will surrender your fruit
and he will take your fleshand you will shiver at his touch
until you don't even recognize yourself.  We didn't realize you could leave
Until you had gone.
And now, flowers are for the dead.