Once They Spall-Sparkled Like Foxglove!

The downbeat, downtrodden, joys of love. Once they spall-sparkled like foxglove! But now deflate like a beach ball… Pig’s bladder, words choke, a hairball. And cough out each forgotten phrase! Utterances of the bee, still purveys. But—isn’t partial to a petal… Doesn’t wish, to defile; not a bud. And the rose, herself is quite, bruised. Froze, wounded, and suffused: Her pink-briar-arms, no-longer-cling… The white-picket-fence where-once did sing. Inside the fountains cave all they grasp Steadfast nettle stinging, an asp…? O’ they hear torrent; waters past… In their drowning, they cut the mainmast. But remain, anchored to the last. For they’ve made a sticky honey-caste!