Rose (and Another Name)

 
Everything was great.

Coming up roses,

while I was pushing up daisies

(which dampened bloom, but still)

in that sense–

fresh.

I was fresh as a daisy.

(with every single petal pulled in a love octagon gone awry)
 

There was wine in my glass,

and roses in my cheeks

(adorned with specs tinted same)

–originally seeded with glasses of a different composition–

I was a garden that merited melody.

Did my Maid Marion clash, d’ya think?

woven from pressured daisies as it was?

oopsie

I think I pulled it off

daisy!

Petals destined for pulling after all,

the only real thorn in my

bouquet

–that I lingered near, practically hyperventilating as I took in whiff after aromatic waft–

was my bed strewn

with same

–rose and daisy petals, both.