Flowers begin to close and die as summer ends, and along with them will leave the time you took a walk in a strangers garden, when you looked through the hedges of his mind to find the blooms of thoughts that made sense only in bouquets.
This is the death that you feared mere minutes before, this is the carnage that will unfold soon enough...
Bleeding hearts fill your vision, the flowers you thought you should've seen sooner, that you thought would have spoken about the pain and injuries of love, of denial and distrust.
"they can't be for that," it all makes sense.
Loved this garden has been, and forever more will be, if not by visitors like you, then by death.
And the hearts bleed not of pain or suffering, but to spell the end, the chaos in death, to write it in carnage itself.
Despair washes all over, everything slowly hums to an end, no life to be found anymore, all vanished in a bitter realization, all plants dead in a heartbeat.
But the hum thickens as you keep going, like the murmur of a small, blue stream.