Crimson Clovers |
| by Shane Downing |
The crimson clover does not allow me to haggle;
Its four leaves spread into seven hidden vices.
A softly played tune goes into my head like rain,
The faint twistings interweaving within my soul.
The whitest rose expects dutiful servitude,
Asking not for body or mind but for spirit.
The deep song is pleasant but plain as can be known,
Heard since the dawn of mankind without attitude.
I have been called by the clover into icy embrace,
Fooled by the perfect division and the sweetest essence.
My heart turns its back to the cause in silent denial,
I am selfish in desire of its beautiful grace.
An understood rhythm with remembrance of time,
The calm petals of the rose plying me with guilt.
I simply hang my head in shame as I touch them,
For I forsake the one who would give me my rhyme.
In the midst of the confusing patch I fondly dive,
I can sense and breathe the heartbeat of my small angel.
The sad face of the violet in its comeliness,
Its for all this and more that all else stops as we strive.
I bear my indecision and we all bear that cross,
Some picking and choosing the flowers that bloom brightly.
For me - no, I prefer the art of the unexpected,
Searching for my answer not in the glade but the moss.
Indeed it is longer with the sides pulling me apart,
The true blue reasons seeming all but lost right from the start.
I will remember my short time there when its all over,
For I chose the violet and rose - not the crimson clover.
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