A/N This is set in an AU, I suppose, since Byakuya is smoking. Either way, this is my first piece submitted to this site, and this is a very sparsely edited version of the poem which was jotted down between daydreams in class a while back. Reviews are welcome and appreciated, but no flames or unnecessary rudeness. If you didn't like it, just hit the back button and move onto another fic. Thanks and enjoy!
He sets himself down
with the utmost poise,
pulls out a secret cigarette and
strikes the match on
the edge of the gravestone
in front of him.
he begins to talk.
each word is smooth
but bland.
empty.
He's just the sensible kind of person,
She would say,
A constant. a given.
always upright and full.
But he dissolves into petals
as he inhales the thick smoke
as he peppers the grass with
Rich Crimson
as he begins to speak in cursive
He retraces his syllables like
an old feather quill
drips inky tears that
smear his confessions and
weigh down the rose petals
sliding over his chest and arms
Leaving more dew on each
petal that falls
the Rose finally soaks up
the last drags of smoke
and wilts slowly
It digs blunted thorns
into the buttery ground
and pushes fingers of roots
through the thick grass
it's roots aren't nearly long enough to reach the ground 6 feet down
And people will smile
when the rose truly turns to stone
bare of petals and
smelling of smoke and
claim that it looks better that way
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