On Receiving Flowers

by vermismeridiem

You were told
To close your eyes,

So you do–
Without suspicion,

Eye-lids
Shut
In an automatous,
Curious flutter–

Then,
A miniature
Bouquet
Lay
Beautifully
Delicate
In your hands.

Fresh, delightful,
And fragile–
Too good
Were they, for
Your more wicked
Self cringed
At their sight–

Exuding a new gleam
In that cold night,
In your hands
A gentle cradle
of Love and Joy;

Some of which
You still
Cannot understand–

Like a sound
Of Redeeming
Purity
Amidst a fallen
Mecca-full
Of deafened
Drums.

A dose of sweet medicine,
Leaving you blessed and terrified—
Were you sick
Before,
And were you
Only then,

Upon inhaling Innocence
And Scent,
Finally beginning to,

Through
Great Effort,
Wakened from an
Ageless Neglect,
Overcome

Your Fatal
Illness,
And become Well
To and for all
Once again?

 

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