Sixteen Flowers

    Within the air there was a sound. The wind. The chirping. The soft shuffling of the branches. The calm crunch of the grass and soil. Buried in the ground she felt, but her mind was still above. Flowers were dancing at her ankles and she was in a forest of green and sun, but the concept that bled before her was what really caught her eye. The contorted bone was fresh and the flesh was staining with wet and moist liquids. She recognized a head, a neck, a chest, arms, and legs but they were all dead. 

A corpse of nothing but decay and madness. She'd never felt so psychotic in her life, still taking in what was once her friend but what was now herself. She breathed it in, let it soak into the deepest pores of her skin, and let it fill her lungs with her own demise. She sighed it out, releasing it from under her skin, letting it empty her lungs, and leaving her to dust. This was her creation. This was her own contorted painting that screamed back at her as if it was still alive. Despite the warmth of the air, the body that lay in crimson shades of rose was all that she felt. 

She was a corpse, an empty shedding, a shell from which held nothing but bone and rot. She held the stems tightly in her small hands. Their petals were beginning to wilt but she was sure that they would rid this painting of it's decay. She solemnly swayed towards the painting and placed a white daffodil in it's throat. She continued to add to her creation, placing flower after flower, one by one, to give herself the illusion that this was nature. She began to hum a soft melody that sounded like the beautiful whispers of the leaves and felt like the surface of fresh silk.

"She waits late at night, beneath the weeping willow.

 Flaming sea ignite, beneath the weeping willow.

 All there is in sight, the fumes of burning mellows.

 She was surely to die, with the weeping willow.

 Grieve we shall never cry, or else the willow will grow.

 Seven feet under the ground, we'll wilt beneath willow."

This was her madness. Her demise. She was disgusted by her cruel impulses but she wasn't afraid of what was in front of her. Death. Beneath the willow tree, a body lay spliced with crimson but grew with flowers. Sixteen flowers grew from her creation, but there was no artist. She could never be Van Gogh or Picasso. She was a murderer. 

        Was this the only fabrication she could create?

        Art to call her own,

but she was no artist. 

She was no monster.

She was a concept too.

Author's Note

I didn't expect to write with so much insanity but I was bored and got my hands on Hannibal so I've probably written worse ;^)