Showers of white flowers glide to the cobbestone beneath.
Powers untold the pure flowers bequeath to the cobblestone, again.
Hours pass into minutes pass into seconds as the flowers renew their cycle, going back to the end of the beginning.
Glower the cobbestone must, with its' newfound sun, at the rotten flowers which gave glories they formerly had, willingly.
Cower the black flower must until time catches rhyme and flower catches cobblestone, for all must live within this circle time creates.
Tower the flower must over cobbestone 'til dusk at last sets.
Empowered with the flowers lost power, the cobblestone rises at dusk, settling into an uneasy pattern upon which moment the sun awakens.
Deflowered the cobblestone is of power in the most active parts of the day, wilst the flower struts about with air of power.
Power is the circle which time encircles, having flowers and cobblestones to use as knights and bishops in this game we play.
Tower many a flower think they do over this game, until at last nightfall occurs and they pay for their arrogance.
Power nor flower nor cobbestone shall win this game; only time shall.
Time shall win, wilst everyone walks around for a score feeling as though they have won: this world is cruel in its manner-isms, is it not?