Some poetry i wrote- sonnet 1

there is a flower buried in the snow

the spread of it's red roots is very dense

out in the garden nothing else will grow

the flower soaks up all the nutrients

With colors that resemble blood and bone

among the dead old grass it's roots have knit

Who knows for how much time the flower's grown

I can't remember when I planted it

pull on its scarlet roots, it will not move

like mint or clover, leaves will start to spread

with all it's putrid life it stands to prove

it's thriving in its place amongst the dead. 

and even if you snip it at the end, 

without weed poison, roots will grow again