More clouds arrive. The moon is not in sight.
The wind stops. An eerie silence encompasses the landscape.
With the flower nearby, the plant considers taking root. The strange peace instills false hope.
A tornado appears in the distance.
How foolish of the plant to think that it might be all right.
How foolish to consider taking root.
How foolish to think it would work out.
How foolish to try to control its destiny.
The tornado arrives, and rips the plant from the ground.
As it floats in the wind, with the flower in sights. The plant appears to wilt.
It lands leagues away, in a strange field.
It passes away, distant from all flowers, dejected and hopeless.
The ground consumes its remains.
What's that? A flying seed?
It lands on the spot of the plant's death.