rosemary, pansies, fennel, and columbines;



pray you, i think, i love.



and i shall remember.

rue for you and some for me;



call it herb of grace o' Sundays.



wear it, yet not conventionally.

and daisy.



yet not violets,



they withered with the passing.

and in an hour's time,



so may the daisy,



the sweet, sad daisy.



though i digress,



what you must know is not of death,



it is of the harmony that once belonged.

and 'twas between the flowers, gone.



daisy loved violets;



and violets withered, so discord set.

and it thought that, like rosemary suggests,



it should begin to sing and pray



for the love it remembered.

but praying be damned,



a Christian burial will not be determined,



by deluded lyrics of prayer.



the burial was of no matter, though.



daisy cared for love.



only love, love only;

as did, or do, and should not, i.



and though my story differs,



unrequited love (through the means of death or otherwise),






will always be the same.

so know this fable with no shame,



be you daisy,



or violet,






or death.

and always love,



whether it be in harmony,



discord,






or distress.