once been told about the method of dots and daisies

and how they mark the jumbled patterns of the mind

an endless maze from a white nothing to color's growth

pristine but for scattered shrubbery now just left behind

a canvas blank reminds of fleeting spring's most bitter cost

leading nowhere but to a love that selfish ego desecrates

its passions aimlessly wandering on long and brambled paths

as jilted lillies search for a message the poet's mask relates

standing alone preferable in the center of an empty field

pride resists the sheepish push to reach migratory rows

the blinded flock a sad, starved grouping of faceless ewes

flattered by the amorous displays inate in the desperate ram

flowered meadow shadowed by discarded rubbish heap

an echo yet heard of a soliloquy with a rose petal promise

daisies nod their pretty heads so wise to cunning's scent

alas, poor dandelions loose their heads and sadly go amiss

witlessly cast upon themselves the burden of loving an empty ravine

gardens tumble down far and deep in a bloodletting made complete

escape nigh as impossible as pasting dots on blooming daisies

for in nature and adoration the pattern remains destined to repeat