The flower wilted gracefully as the sun shadowed its way to dark, covering the wind-swept plains with a soft blanket. In the conformed field of darkened colours a small figure made its way slowly, crushing the stems under its foot. Not one being heard the blossoms as they cried out in unrefined pain, broken stalks lying flattered on the ground.

The small figures ears were closed to the screams, no heed needed to be paid to irrelevant beings. The figure paused a moment in its steps. A bend in its back showed its aim to relieve a flower from the ground. The daisy rose came with ease from the soft-ground soil. The figure lifted it to its nose and without a breath smelt its noiseless smell. The rose purposely slipped from its hands, cascading through the air, turning over till it came to rest on a bed of sisters.

The figure continued its walk, stepping through the midnight air. At the edge of the field it paused again and turned, eyeing the unseen destruction.

In the shadows of colour sat a lone flower, staring out over the torrent of the single figure. Disfigured flowers lay in torture, standing lives cowered straight and tall.

A flower lives a life where birth chooses its future. Pain, happiness. All is chosen by where the seed lands. That is the life of a flower, much like the life of man.