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.
-
Author:
satishverma (
Offline) - Published: July 14th, 2020 19:33
- Category: Nature
- Views: 26
Offline)
Comments1
Lovely and painful... I felt like I knew where you were going from the first line. Yet it was a shock nonetheless.
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