Wilted flower droops beneath your cold stare.
Nothing compares to your strength of spirit.
Shining out, you mark the mighty chasm
Between virility and effete.
Come, Great Cosmos, as you will.
Crushed petals do emit a sweeter smell:
The aroma of a languishing bud!
Efflorescence pales the gayest cluster—
Iridescence waving out heroic,
Like the ringlets of your resolute head.
You choose to posses or not
Fronds of any blossom. It
Phases not in the least, the direction
Of your undaunted, energetic stream.
But, let your virgins pull each petiole
And drop them longing about your footpath.
Not for your notice, your head never wilts,
But for the appearance, there.
Reiterate triumphant,
Self-righteously deified,
Sculpted, immortalized, there on your arch.
-jenn long
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