Plants weave together to form puffy little pillows,
Formed of poppies, passion fruits, and old crooked willows.
They bloom in March,
Before being drained dry for salty starch.
Then as it would proceed,
In April I was dubbed a fool and found myself cast far into the sea to bleed.
When May next came into play,
Out I crawled from the barren bay.
Desperate, I laid my bloodied head to rest.
But there was nothing left but thistles tearing out tears and putting passion to the test.
-end-