Carelessly she up roots the flower and begins to yank at it’s
beauty- pulling her dress, petal by petal, from her green body. Dropping the
colorful silk to the dirt, she seems to think her purpose is more important.
She sings.
He loves me, he loves me not.
And the blooming life cries, slowly surrendering to the
human hands.
Unaware as they are, perhaps.
But selfish.
Only to find out that “he loves me not.”
The girl laughs, throwing the remains on the earth and running
away saying something about next time and an odd number.
Was this what her life was for?
To die for someone’s foolish game?
As the flower lay dying, she wondered how God could have
ever trusted her life with the giants.
Surely He knew this would happen.
She replayed the riddle in her soul, the last words stealing her last breath.
He loves me. He loves me not.
He loved me.
He loves me not.
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