The sky grew darker 

The clouds grew angry 

 

My bones grow frail

and my soul grows lonely 

 

I spend all of my free moments painting flowers on to hospital beds 

 

I leave halved apples in the passenger side of every car wreck I see 

 

I am the angel of beauty, or at least camouflaging every sick situation with satin and lilac petals 

 

No matter how many morning glories I place on your grave, you are still dead.