Once they spall-sparkled like foxglove

The downbeat, downtrodden, joys of love.
Once they spall-sparkled like foxglove!

But now deflate like a beach ball…
Pig’s bladder, words choke, a hairball.

And cough out each forgotten phrase!
Utterances of the bee, still purveys.

But—isn’t partial to a petal…
Doesn’t wish, to defile; not a bud.

And the rose, herself is quite, bruised.
Froze, wounded, and suffused:

Her pink-briar-arms, no-longer-cling…
The white-picket-fence where-once did sing.

Inside the fountains cave all they grasp
Steadfast nettle stinging, an asp…?

O’ they hear torrent; waters past…
In their drowning, they cut the mainmast.

But remain, anchored to the last.
For they’ve made a sticky honey-caste!