March Flower Poem by Shawn Greyling

Death hath no anomie on this March born Flower.
Her smell lingers upon the senses
and dances down the skin of the wind.

Will her blossoms bloom for him again as they did before?
A flower loved by the eyes of men
but solely understood by a little boy
who loved her for the way she swayed
on the fields of shangri-la.

Her stem firmly rooted in his heart
but plucked by hands steered by fait.

The boy lost without his March Flower
wanders the wild with intoxication clinging
to each and every footstep laid down
in the wrong direction
chasing shadows shadowing memories
yinging and yanging and pulling on his soul.

Ai, a flower she is now
in a vase staring at the wonder
of
what went wrong
and the fields of the past is now but a bad drunk.

Come back to me my flower,
the fields are lost and cry
for their muses return;
where we used to roam and love is
now a vacant lot drenced in tears and wine.

Ai come back my love,
come back to the heart of love,
and live,
live upon the dreams of the past.