Woe to all young daisies-
Being left to grow and flourish,
In a vast forest of pure intentions.
Their stems reach true heights,
In the love of their prime.
It's an atrocity-
That they soon shrivel,
And then become a dime in a dozen.
But the one whose seeds they’d sown.
To reap the stems and the petals-
Of the purest of hearts.
To move on,
And leave brand new seeds to grow.
Or, so they say.
That withered daisy had reached it’s end,
But only in its current moment.
With its stigma and it’s petals-
And its leaves distanced out,
Defending itself high to the sun.
Its pistil cocked and ready to contest,
The loaded questions-
From the grass neighboring close to the ground.
Unable to be spun.
From yelling deep from their roots-
“I have not lost! And you have not won!”
And another ample anther,
Bellows to all those below-
“Though you say it's past my time!-”
“I will defy... and grow.!”