Twisting

The wise old God yawned his final flower into the world.
Its leaves were dry and its petals faded as dust but its stem reached higher than the trees and mountains and even clouds.
Tiny white cockroaches climbed it until they couldn't catch their breath.
Birds scratched at it and made their nests out of the rough remnants of the earth.
It was but a final spotlight from the pupil of God.
And as the brink of Armageddon was touched it detached its roots as the earth vanished into a puff of smoke.
And crossed space like a rocket until finally coming to a stop shedding its petals like shooting stars, its leaves like tiny magic carpets.
Its stem the final sign.
Male fertility.