What have you birthed, a second time? Roses spiked with poison, limp petals quivering with broken promises. Humanity blossoms rye against winds honing madness into seeds of another generation questing after their genes, who know nothing of the glowing harp, or an angel's trembling wings, beating essences of recovery with an incandesence of being. Every symbol is a loss of faith made visible. Each gene is the root of a possible work of ascending art.