Rose is cozy
in her bed,
crown of thorns
beneath her head,
leaves behind
no trace of blood,
staunching stem
with packs of mud.
Daisy’s crazy
so forlorn,
peddlin’ bits
from top–now torn,
entertaining
love or less,
puts the stress on
Daisy’s tress.
Glory’s hoary
late at night,
more sub’dewed
in morning light,
purple hue
like Jimi’s haze,
sees her through
her Glory days.
Bella Donna
disses dawn,
sleeping deep
till glare is gone,
dressed in black
at dusk—her eyes
–dilate to
twice their size.
Poppy’s sloppy
sleepy girl,
dropping off
she’s dead to world,
shake won’t wake
just rattle brains,
channeled where
she feels no pain.
Lily’s willies
mark her grave–
–manner & her
wish to wave,
banners bidding
you adieu,
wreathed & ribboned
final view.
©Karen Robiscoe
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