She does not believe!
Who robbed her, she in the blossom frills?
The vindictive?
The vitriolic?
Though it is she,
Herself,
Who stole
Undermining the serene
No one could preclude,
As she frolicked away,
Into crimson cloven,
In that yellow gown of daffodils.
Let those of withering heat
Release it's unrelenting power,
Shrivel, Dry
Crack.
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