The flower wilted, in it’s own nectar no less. Too sweet for the ground, and the moon shone pale, for all who cursed it, cried under its shimmery gaze. And the wolves bayed at another master, hidden with furs of their kin, they nipped at imagined foes and threats. The charred bark were their only prospects, but they, always happy to play, coalesced. And a fragment of memory, in infinity lay, swallowed the bowls of progress for itself. Bitter Bitter cups, of tonic, not even honey can rectify, but we’ve acquired a taste for poisons.