The Flower

I knew a man, the love was pure,
I was aloud; he was demure,
He thought my love he could not keep,
And sought to test it in my sleep,
He brought me there on morning ire,
An odd request, though not so dire,
He asked that I would keep a flower,
And argued love daren’t last the hour,
He mocked me then, I did not fear,
I cannot lie, true love was near!
So I embarked on this queer quest,
To keep it living, nothing less.

And so I tended ending-less
Was I abreast of garden mess?
I toiled, dallied every day,
And thought the words I could not say,
For in the silence I had met,
A partner worthy of that bet,
That I could keep that thing alive,
Indeed, it was, the flower thrived.

And in his absence I had found,
Resilience in work of ground,
I did not need arbitrary tests,
I do not work in fruitless jests,
If he believed me truly able,
He never ought to make a fable.

He stumbled inside from the rain,
And just his sight, it brought me pain,
He did not care about the spat,
He wanted power, that was that,
I could not help but to believe,
The flower gave me sole reprieve,
He saw the plant, so wild and free,
And likewise never could control me,
I bid him leave, his love was vile,
It filled me then with darkest bile,
He came at me, with tongue of snake,
“Undying life you cannot make”!
I stared at he, then at the flower,
And recognized I had the power,
And though it pains as freedom dies,
I lift the plant towards the skies,
Then threw it down and I now said,
“It’s cracked asunder; love is dead”.


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