When the flower child cried a war,

thorns pierced the world apart.

Bleeding in shades of lilac and blue,

even a pale orange hue.

Aroma of scented beauties,

metallic taste of blood,

the tattooed punk was wearing a flower crown,

the princess, dressed as a stud.

Dead plants, rising to be new,

flower child wanted the respect, due.

Feets with jiggling anklets were few,

little feet trashing the grass with dew.

Jean jacket and a nose ring to compell,

the aura changed, heavens could tell.

An inked bird between her breasts,

no snuggling, "that is for birds in nests".

Tingling pink rings,

on strong wrists,

like the essence of light,

rubbing darkness, bright.

Long legs, even lengthy dreams,

if you survive, you choose your teams.

Warning on the epitaph was written to warn,

but the moral was spread far and wide,

not uneasy to unlearn.

The change is finally in a speed cart,

faster than a narrowed tart.

Because, the flower child is winning the war,

putting bandages on hearts, which were torn apart.

Flower Child by Wordchantress