Author’s note: A poem I wrote in a series entitled The Language of Flowers.
I died a hundred times for you
But my love, he never knew
And so I’ll die just once more
To see if life’s worth living for.
Pretty presents that you gave,
All the memories I cannot save.
Your posy sits here still with me,
Acacia flowers and primroses wilting viciously.
Like a tree, our love would grow
But I guess you wished it so.
Left me to the rocks and sheep
Now a willow, I do weep.
Soon he’ll turn from ashes to dust,
Forgive me dear, I could not help but lust.
I’ll follow him in either way
Unless you start and wish of me to stay.