It started out small; just some roses here, hydrangeas there. The flowers peppered the garden like freckles. The freshly packed snow glistened in the sun.

“How are those plants still alive?” My brother asked.

“I have no idea,” I complained. “Those flowers have been there since May. They’re pretty, sure, but they won’t stop growing, no matter how much I prune them,” I lamented.

“I don’t understand how you can complain about that!” My brother laughed. “You must have one heck of a green thumb.” That’s what the neighbors always said. It wasn’t me though. I planted those flowers in the late spring for my end of semester project.

Now they won’t die.

The fence was barely visible, entangled with wisteria, and the ground was now covered in daisies and dandelions. I didn’t plant those. My father attempted to rid the yard of the plants in all manner of ways. He sprayed the yard with tons of weed killer. He mowed the lawn dozens of times in the early morning. He spent an entire weekend uprooting every last one of them by hand. They kept growing.

By June of next year, the house was overrun. Exotic plants crawled up the red brick walls and snaked up the roof. The driveway was stained with vines and leaves. By now we had made peace with the ever growing flora. The neighborhood kids knew us as the flower house. At least they’re pretty.

The flowers finally cracked through the bricks. They infested our house like ants, uprooting our houses foundation.

“Clarissa! You need to get these gosh darn plants out of my house!”

“I didn’t grow them!” I rebuttaled.

The plants seeped through the cracks of the house like a parasite. They wrapped themselves around windows and above photo frames. They wormed their way throughout the house until they forced us out.

I came back to the house one day, years after we’d moved. The green plants blossomed with colors of every sort. The dilapidated building stood out against the bright red bricks and stark white roooftops of the rest of the street. The house was still overrun with flowers. It belonged to nature now.

“Wonderful work of art, huh?” While I was reminiscing, a stranger had made his way to my place by our old mailbox.

“Oh, yeah. It’s beautiful.”

“I’ve heard so many stories about how this place came to be. My favorite though, is that a girl wanted to be the best florist in the world. So she began to experiment and grow flowers in her yard. But it blossomed out of control. See what I did there?” He gave me a corny smile and turned to face me.

“I don’t know if it’s true, but if it is, she must’ve been one heck of a green thumb.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “One heck of a green thumb indeed.”

Crows croaked a cacophony over the crowd, Casting shadows on the ground.

Empty eyes flooding with tears, Drowning the priest’s eternal rest prayers, While lifting the tombstones all around.

Knock, knock, I look around the crowd, But no one’s watching.

Bruises from pinched skin, Proving I’m not a dreamer. The peaceful, slumbered breaths grew weaker, Then silently came the grim reaper.

Knock, knock, I look around the crowd, But no one’s watching.

My sealed fate pulled my gaze like a magnet, Forcing my eyes upon the wooden casket.

It’s easier to hide in the dark, Hiding my many secrets buried in kaleidoscopes, The lights shining through my countless facets.

Knock, knock, I look around the crowd, But no one’s watching.

“Here lies…” The crows start to clear from the skies, Exposing my disguise. This was my doomed demise.

Knock, knock, I no longer peer through the crowd, But stare up at the top of a casket, And outside everybody is watching.

The light now shining through the clouds, Peering through the small cracks in a long cascade.

The breath stolen from my lungs, As pounds of dirt smothered the light until, It was nothing but endless shade.

Crows croaked a cacophony over the crowd, Casting creeping shadows, a darkening shroud. Cruel cries cut crisply, the night they defiled, Cobwebbed corners where fear's child smiled.

Bats broke the blackness with brittle wing beats, Bearing burdens of blood from forbidden feasts. Beneath the bright moonlight,, they blindly ballet, Binding the breeze with their bleak array.

Serpents slithered silently, scales shimmering slight, Sinking fangs swiftly in the shroud of night. Solemnly swearing by the sibilant moon, Secreting sweet venom that would spell doom soon.

Wolves wailed woefully within the wood, Whispering warnings where once they stood. Waning moon watched, a witness so stark, While the whistling wild winds wove through the dark.

Ravens reigned regally, ruffling the rest, Ripping and robbing the remnants of the rook's last nest. Reveling in the ruckus, the ruthless raid, Ruling the roost where the dead were laid.

Crows croaked a cacophony over the crowd Their caws disheartening and loud We are stuffed and cannot get out we look to the crows to fly north or south.

To my left the lady falls To my right a crow caws above me there’s clouds I check for the calm, and the crows are still loud.

The crows is moving, yet we’ve hit another wall the crows are flying another way, we still follow their panicked caw I’m holding on with nerves those around me are falling and getting hurt what do we do when we are all laid on the dirt?

it’s been days and i’m running with my eyes closed i don’t care if i fall and break my nose the crows still caw yet this crowd has lessened i open my eyes to check, and notice i’m the last one standing.

what was my goal? to survive or just live? where are the crows? and the people who’d run and skip?

i stop running and take a look around i see my thoughts in the clouds and photos of me broken on the ground my heart starts racing, and the crows get loud.

my eyes open again i look around my room and it spins the knot in my stomach is thick i hold my stomach, my nerves made me sick.

i can still hear the crows this time they say words, only ones i know. it twists my stomach into knots and i lay here, telling myself that i’m someone i’m not.

maybe i am? maybe my words are true? i limp to my mirror, my mind answers my questions “that’s you!” it yells this 5 times, to each version my eyes create, none are familiar to me, i’m stuck like an inmate.

i’m staring into who should be me who is she and why is it loud? my eyes are searching, for a me i can’t see what are the crows still crowing about?

my ears are ringing my mind full of doubt these crows are now singing as i lay here lifeless on the ground.

An Alluring Audience Awaits Badass Bodacious Babes Bearing Bongs Crows Croaked a Cacophony over the Crowd Dagger Devils Dig Demented Daughter’s Deep Dreams

Crows croaked a cacophony over the crowd as they took their places in the stands.

A man kneels upon the ground and is encouraged to lift his hands.

He shakes his head and begins to beg, but with one quick swoop the axe takes off his head and the crows fall silent in the mournful dread.

Crows croaked a cacophony over the crowd A lion languidly lurked and laughed out loud Parrots and pirates placidly paraded the plank Sand crabs scattered and scurried then sank Dogs dutifully dug in the dirt and

Crows croaked a cacophony over the crowd. It a sickening reminder of city dissonance - cars and people all over the place, not a moment of peace. Sounds that never bothered us while running down nighttime streets, our heels clacking loudly on the cement, lips letting loose our cries and laughs of pure joy. Sweaty hands clasped together and not minding the grease and funk of that night. While warms hands held each other in brisk walks from our apartment to our errands in the bitter northern winters. While kissing your lipstick off like rough waves kissed the sands on the beach where we stayed through a week of bad weather. I remember spotting one mornings' mist clinging to your eyelashes and thinking that you are the most beautiful person I've ever known. This wilderness, right behind your parents' rural home, is one of the most beautiful places I've ever known, a fitting resting place for you. You'll still have the noise out here.

Les corbeaux croassent en cacophonie au-dessus du cortège Pendant que criquets craquent en chœur leurs antennes écorchées Comment connaissent-ils la crapule qui croupit dans son cercueil Le croque-mort leur aurait-il confié qu’il coiffait un cruel croulant

Qu’importe l’écriteau accroché au crucifix du caveau Ce croûton crispé pourra bien s’incruster dans la corniche Son cadavre, même consacré est appelé à décrépir Parmi les croix incongrues et les chrysanthèmes écrasés

Tant que sa croupe ne sera pas picorée par les corbeaux Tant que son crâne ne sera pas creusé par les criquets Son seul crime sera d’avoir crétinisé les couards de son quartier Sans qu’ils croient s’être fait escroqués par ce con sans scrupules

Criez corbeaux, craquez criquets, votre cacophonie est trop courte Le crépuscule croît et le corps froid qu’on s’apprête à couvrir Est un bien médiocre sacrifice pour qu’on le complimente Pour qu’on choisisse les courbettes en concurrence au secret

Crows croaked a cacophony over the crowd Mourners gathered around the casket, eyes wet with tears I dabbed my own with a handkerchief Keep up the act, look devastated, is all I can do Difficult to nod in a heartbroken way when they come to apologize for my loss The lawyer reads off his will, saving my name for last If only I could rejoice when the crown is handed to me If only the knife with my husband’s blood didn’t feel so heavy in my hand…