Underneath a pearl glass-bell,
lives a youthful rose. So tender,
fragile, she has just awoken to tell,
us the story of her life and the spender.
Born in the fake light,
of mid-April's gloom,
she arose to a height,
to which the daisy's still,
desperately try to bloom.
Every day that passed,
her leaves would slinken,
her colours fading. To reappear,
in the dark that sunk,
deep into ambrosia leaves of crimson.
Her master, a gard'ner in green,
. . 1. .2, drops every day;
he would not let her too keen.
Thirsty, she drank her hunger away,
and let her mind wander in August decay.
Eager to dance,
with the petunia's in the morning,
and tango with the lilly's,
by nightfall. She once tried,
to escape the sorrowing,
and bump against glass skin.
She lost a leaf,
had betrayed her master,
and was set far behind,
in the sun-locked closet.
Not a year had passed,
that she had ever looked of age;
she never chose a fitting smile,
to wrinkle her caged face.
Her hope is still,
that once she lost all,
her virginitive leaves,
he will let her dance,
with the mournful lilly's,
that still cry daily,
of her abundance and deceit.
~~ dedicated to Lockhart ~~ |
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