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.
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