Last summer’s flower

And the moonbeams kiss the sea;
Said he who wrote the Intellectual Beauty

They all wrote of love, of desire and being loved

But none of them wrote of Last summer’s flower,

Drawing inspiration from the greats and the moonbeams

I decided to write about “the flower”

So you see my dear, this is probably the first time I am talking

to a fellow being about this

For half my life only the sylphs and the gnomes of Pope had

knowledge of, the Flower

I will begin my verse for you have to promise no word is spoken till

He, our Creator will call upon us on the Day of Resurrection

You might think why am I talking to you in this fashion

For I hold in my heart his name. Dear listen to what I have to say;

There was this summer when I was young, I met him near the door of Dante’s Circle

Had I known it would offer me life long suffering I would have never glanced

But you can not change the course of the wave can you;

It happens,

Happened with blue green stains all over the white canvas

For he was the summer and me a flower,ready to be plucked

I heard him murmur of seas he came from, how far and the beautiful was the

place he came from

He was curled on the bed,his curls on my pillow

When I realised I was not the flower anymore,summer was gone

I was an icicle,

All things fade and die,even flowers

That instant I was turned into a hart, now I know I am a flower Actaeon

But why cry and grieve for he who wrote the Intellectual Beauty said

If winter comes,can spring be far behind
And my summer.

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