Women, win

Women, win.

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.