Poems to please the soul...

Here take this chrysanthemum 

This antediluvian gesture 

A story of a young man's love 

In the petals and fine textures

Do bathe in its subtle complexities

Of meaning 

Of simple minded tendencies

Round round round 

We go 

Round the old willow tree 

Like a fairy tale 

Only there are no talking owls to tell of prescient details

Only there are no roses to prick the fate of love 

Out of a bit of blood

Only a plant 

A plant sadly drooping from one lonely glass vase

Trapped in its cage 

Wilting in two hours 

But promising a contented old age 

And must one be assuaged 

From the dreamy lusts of fantasy?

Of course from none other

Than little yellow chrysanthemum 

Plucked from Mrs. Plaskett's garden 

Because no rose can capture that childish little grin

Nor anything quite so genuine 

The End

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