He speaks of calmness, of reflective,
To meditate, is what he says.
Soft spoken, with hope for the just,
He is willing to sacrifice for all.
But he has his own limits,
Regardless of whatever he do.
The little pink flower may just have bloomed,
But watch out! For it is doomed.
The sky darkens and he spits his words,
Speaking of eternity and gore.
He shadows the One back home,
And seeks his opinion.
He picks the nay flower,
And jumbles it in his pocket.
For that is the anger of a gentle man.
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