There's a flower made of ash, but it never crumbles.
I blow on it, make a wish, but it holds together like brick.
It's the opposite of nature, but I can't figure out why.
I never water it. I step on it, try to watch it die, but it doesn't.
It was never green, probably never will be, I have no hope for nature's joke.
The sun peeks at it's pedals. They never hide, nor shine on earth's design.
It sets. She, sets. I know her, the stiffness, that is.
It can't be man because she never wins. This line of life was never his.
His, the ash, I mean. Only standing as tall as the pieces seem.
I pray for wind, but feared the sin, God knew that I was back again.
To blow the ash that stood like brick, but it fell down and didn't stick.
I walked away, thinking of why, he must have looked into her eyes.
He gave in, when she smiled, and after sin, the women win.