Sunflowers, moonflowers
I smell when crying outside
though they cannot compare
to the smell of themselves dried

It is, however, quite nice
when sat out and drunk and fine
so to my lover’s sorrow ought to speak
facing their troubles will be my pick

Is it, though, mine or Heaven’s
to choose love over life
to cheer for someone’s thrive
instead of my own rise

It is, but, my Father’s wish
to give and not care to receive
for I’m created to create
and not to my heart please

What if, still, my heart aches for love?
and is not all love worthy of care?
How, Father, can I escape sin
when the love I seek is deemed rare?