The road to hell is paved with good intentions,
But lined with flowers:
Their warmth preventing
The caress of cold metal from the skin;
And their hue keeping
The glint of steel from the eye.
Yet a prison adorned in splendor
Remains a prison nonetheless.
This is bondage from within and without
Garlanded with the
Of a new life yet to come;
A condition of confinement
Undergirded with efflorescent wreaths;
A chain which requires its garland
Lest it cease to be a chain:
The shackle yoking the droves
Together in their masses,
As they labor obediently in
The miasma radiating from their flora.
But when the pedals fall away
(One by one)
The mist recedes to reveal
The vale of tears