(i was just obsessed with the word)
the garden outside the house remained forever a resting place for the daffodils, who came each spring walking on their roots- more like crawling, to be honest, and brought foreign polen that the local flowers considered a delicacy. as a matter of fact, not one flower has blossomed since the daffodils stopped marching hereabouts. martha built the most splendid greenhouse anyone has ever built in the south of arkansas. she had no need of help and no storm was able of bringing the walls down. and even in such a miraculously adequate environment, all plants refused to show their colorful petals. maybe the polen isn't to blame, is it? some say, and i had never considered it 'til now, that the real reason the flowers dont grow no more, is the same reason the daffodils left: a curse! and monsegnior, you know as well as everybody that we got but one witch in this whole damn town, who else to steal the color?
YOU ARE READING
high thoughts
Poetryjust some stuff i write when high (not particularly good and not exactly well written) TW: suicide and depression stuff
