Don't cover me in daisies, or
roses; they're pure.
Cover me in the weeds and grime and
bees of the rosemary bush where we
told our first lies.
Of love and sinning, and candle-lit flames.
Of our love that grew as straggled and untamed
as the herb the most bitter.
It wasn't perfect, but it still smelt divine.
We weren't perfect, but we fit just fine.
YOU ARE READING
Blackberry Thistles ✓
Poesiapoems as delicate as the fruit itself, and as thought-provoking as the sour aftertaste. All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2019 Kate H. > third place winner of the gem-mers awards poetry section 2020
