The West

I plucked you up, just to admire your petals.
Run my fingers between them;
Sully, belittle.
Lower and Lower,
and soon it was certain.
You were riddled with edges.
Rigid, nasty thorns.

Which I adorned.

I'm a masochistic florist.
That'll trade pleasure for pain.
The sadistic forrester
that could call you by name.

Sweet and supple, at first.
Of course it doesn't take long,
for you deep-rooted ivies
To become brittle and thirst.

Just the worst of admirers.

Left you broken and damned.
Selfishly reaped of your beauty for the enjoyment of man.

So I sowed my own notion.
I'd preserve you,
dry-pressed.
From time-to-time, I'd compare you to the rest.

There's a thorn that I found, it's perminently embedded.
You'll bloom again, and I'll just end up infected.

I theorize your foresight, and your motives for such.
Do you get off on this 'crusading succubus' clutch?

If so that's hot.

But really, let's do lunch.

After all, you nailed it shut.
Resting your pretty bulbs on top.
At sunset, made my heart stop.

Maybe just offer another crack-pot homeopathic remedy
to cure one's eternal curse to never love.