Warm were hands that
gifted me flowers
White roses and
tulips in bloom
Scent nascent
sans sly fervour
Innocence intense
invigorating shy plume

Creased, the hands that
cleansed this fever
Wilted roses and
tulips no more
Torment was
listless subservience
My wildflower was lost
to shore

Waiting then for a Panacea
Is it futile, or is it hope
Crumpled, fractured
Is, my Pangea
Pray, deliverance !
A means to cope?