A garden withered, worn, dead
Observed a man, a passerby
"I am these flowers," aloud he said
And the hours ticked by as he turned to face the sky
At once, the man turned, from the garden left
In all its nothingness remained
When the man returned, his pale wept
While life's living nourishment rained
At that, the man removed his coat
Black and stained from the road
Then brilliance, life, and vibrance shown
Spreading to every rose
Passion, he thought, the water he was missing
To which he in his life had been blind
And he said to the flowers the sun was now kissing
What life without passion life did find?