Flowers;

 

Sainthood surrounding as an essence like the aroma to a flower, the innocence exuding from him as he stood by the ashen trees that had long ago died at the hands of war. A weaved basket propped against his hip as he salvaged the remains of hydrangeas, singed at their edges, a crisp black fading into oblivion ruining the white petals.

He looked at them solemnly, his delicate fingers entrapped the flower in a fleshy cage and all too quickly let it loose, the petals hanging by thin threads broken by the even the slightest breeze. 

 

 

*warning: contains religious references, if you are offended by that kind of thing