Winding Its Way Back

In my heart, I have a flower. It's scented. Have you not seen it? Have you not yet—found that bower? Not pricked one forefinger on it. It lies beside a stream, winding it's way back to a garden, said one time-to-be called Eden Love, I'm not just eulogising. Find that bower, follow its scent right to the flower's heart, still rent -on loving you, it's a serpent that's fanged but lovingly verdant. Bitten you're emitted, a death so, enigmatic the world pales and like a honeybee beneath sepals, amassing nectar bales. You shall find the first flower borne- somewhere withstood the gaze of love you might think this flower-lowborn -found, but there's nothing sweeter above.