What I thought a flower--a ****,
Invasive, only to breed,
Not rare,
Invasive, destroying,
but compelling indeed,
Pretty petals I was lost,
But all the same,
As months out at sea,
I thought love,
Due to,
No power to leaave.
Then I longed for the flower,
With no vain double petal,
that honey bees pass,
For the rare flower to settle,
And that bee,
Led me out ,
of Heart stinging nettle,
I once thought ****,
My rare and lovely flower indeed,
And tho,
Only green,
A scent only known to me,
Green turned to gold,
'round my finger,
As I took a knee,
and clutched gloss of green,
Oh what I thought flower:
stinging nettle,
But by being,
Patient and faithful,
as dutiful honey bee can,
gold and not sting,
on my morning hand.
no regrets,
in her sun light stand,
What I thought common ****:
petals folded up as a fan,
destined as the honey bee,
unfolded beauty to me,
my rare flower, my bride to be.