She is a heart orchard.
She nourishes a little heart tortured.
Battered and bastard of seeds he plants.
With the help of birds and an army of ants.
In little trees of lavishing red and green...
Is her Thorne, Empress; she's of a platted zone.


Band with the token unplanned she took the command over the land on demand.
Though shy with her words she is.
Flow why does her heart like a banshee?
Is it the looming of her impending fate?
Does her little heart orchard have a vacancy enough for her grave?

The coming autumn she must die.
Her drumming atoms can't deny.
Drying and falling of foliage.
Can't refute her impending fate...
Cutting off her branches and bondage,
In twisting and turning of her cartilage is her beauty.
To be a decorative piece is her duty.
A pleasure to his eyes, amongst the giant trees of hearts; she is a bonsai.

©su_tshant