A big lump of thunder fried to crisp.
Explosive transformed to sizzling crackles.

(Not meant for eating.
Unlike some words.)

Sliced into thin neat strips
and delicately laid out on the compost rubble.
A heap of muddy soil to cover, conceal its existence.
Earth drowns the sputter of cooked rumble.

Worms survive.
Pests fester.
Aged rage rots.
Fertilizes.

Now fertilized.

Stem creeps out from veins that took root.
Slender, stretching tall and taller.

Like unfolded fingers of a clenched fist
Leaves spread open their individual glory.

Soon, a bud shall grow.

Bright moist red petals
might fall to ground.

For composted cooked sound
still thrives as thorns
that prick and cause bleed

But.

Not.

The soft warm tender hand of
those for whom silent roses bloom.

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