As pretty maids wait in rows, their twists of fate unfold
So then do the desires of these newly conceived flowers
They burst from bulbs and/or sprout from seeds

They proceed on the grounds of mankind’s turf
From around and about a dead man’s tomb
Or in their mothers womb, our earth

Their budding tells the tale of life’s rebirth
Their only worth to be a blessing for the bees
They perfume our world and bring forth new seed

Bright yellows, dark reds, brilliant whites, and deep purples
Accented with stems of green, fresh air is being born
Straight towards the heavens the air, it is sent

Fragile tiny cups, with tales yet to be unfolded
With broken handles gone, no shelf to be put upon
Banishment now made, only lawns of green are seen

When reviled, their scene becomes so serene
So vital they are but, yet when plucked
It becomes so final, they die

Deep within nectar was lain there, inside
Waiting to be supped up by cheery little butterflies
Busy bees and humming birds

Or by those pesky flies use to dinning on turds
Within them lies a mystery, a great debate
By accident, design, or fate

They were seeded and put into play
But, now the ripping of the petals torn, we love them not
Who willed them here, and who decides their fate

Feared  by us, hated by us, and ashamed they made us, its now too late
They whispered, they shouted, let us out, let us be, let us grow

But, no we’ll deseed and have it our way, it is after all our time to live

Ripped from their beds alive, confused and in pain 
You tossed us into their bloody metal tray
And then we all are betrayed to the compost heap

What force commanded us to come and grow
The two lips of God, human desires, or evil unseen

It matters not, we will all be feasted upon by  the worms

A Rose is but, a prickly tease
A Danny Lion roars for sure
Because he is just a weed

And Baby’s Breath is what? Is not
Another choice played out , how many do we get?
Bounced into play, on bending knees and yet the ball was dropped

So  a tulip is, but a flower
And the oaths of men are, but words
When pulled; they all lie in the dirt, and are lain to waste

A thought by Sinbad the Sailor Man

Thank you for the read Donnie/ Sinbad the Sailor Man

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