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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

Cherished illusions

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

They’ve left.

Untouched,

Unadulterated:

Intact.