Each word is a petal on a bouquet
freshly given to you by noble hand;
whatever you do not throw away
the message before its meaning was planned:
The stems (before you cut them) are my thoughts,
and you can prune them however you like,
but do not touch them if you're having doubts –
my thornless barbs mete out a mighty strike:
Infuse my thoughts with light, air and water,
and watch my words fill the space with delight;
neglect my insights with vapid chatter,
and watch true dreams brown out as if from blight:
The choice was yours: get with this or with that.
How are your dreams, are they florid or flat?
urbansonnets 