Diary Of A Daffodil

Do they love me because I have mastered the art of death and resurrection the two intangible disbeliefs?

Or is it my fiery toothed face hung bold like a megaphone on a wispy cream halo they so fiercely endear?

I do not know. But to be rooted to the cold earth and left reaching for life is torturous.

Not to mention maintaining this figure, lean and vulnerable to the toddler’s stamps.

The end of April. Time for another clinical execution.

I have never seen the summer. The sweet old lady

Life is a series of endings