Nothing ever fits them.
Not the phloem of the heart,
or xylem of the spirit.
They gratify in nothing.
The stem of dissatisfaction they wield,
proves just how rigid their hearts are,
impermeable to scents blown by the roses.
The mode of loving evades their ways,
they play games in your garden,
and the fun never stops at your roots.
They shoot up,trans-locate your feelings,
unfortunately you don't realize their motive,until after your petals open.
And you aren't the last flower.
On to another plant they fall-ow...
Wind of reason unleashes the dreaded chant,
" One is never Enough..."
byM.O.O aka Carswell evoL
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