Once on a dark morning, at the dawning of Spring, I sat at my window where no bird would sing In my dark musty room that I'd come to call home, in the dread and the stench where all hope was forgone.
On this stagnant spring morning I arose from my sill, left my demons a'scorning to head for the hill, to look for the sun, where it bloomed all about in the grass, in the rocks, and in the wall's dusty grout.
I tore the golden blossoms from the ground where they grew, and put them in a vase and filled it with dew. I took them back home to my dungeon of stone, prisoners I'd keep, sunshine of my own, to rot on a table, and light up my space, to share in my misery, bringing smiles to my face.
I gave them my love. I gave them affection, for in their short life span, we shared a connection. We were all flowers in a dusty rotten room that once reached for the sky before accepting our doom.
Like branches of Daphne, more glorious than Apollo, the daffodils shone in my sad, grotesque hollow. And when they had withered, pathetic with hurt I freed them from their prison and buried them in the dirt.
One year later, while the afternoon is still, I drive by the daffodils growing on the hill. How dare I admire them, growing lovely and free? They are the essence of everything I'm too cowardly to be.