You start crying
about the lost meaning
of the red lily, sitting
on a tender stem―
waiting for the kiss of moon.
It will never speak of the
bluebells and daffodils,
hyacinths and tulips.
Fleur-de-lis.
Lily white, I always
adored your downy arms
arching to lift a X
Noises in the head
have risen again. You will
need the deadly nightshade
with drooping purple flowers.
Or you drink the potion
of hemlock and become
Socrates.