In the midst of a Cold, I wrote this Poem

{{#ifeq: | | {{#ifeq: Justin S. (Whiteflame) | |

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     Author: Whiteflame  
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   {{#ifeq: Whiteflame | |
     Author: Justin S. (Whiteflame) |
     Author: Justin S. (Whiteflame)  
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 {{#ifeq: Justin S. (Whiteflame) | |
   {{#ifeq: Whiteflame | | Authors: ' | 
     Authors: Whiteflame 
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   {{#ifeq: Whiteflame | |
     Authors: Justin S. (Whiteflame) |
     Author: Justin S. (Whiteflame) 
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}} {{#if:| — see also [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}

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<poem> In the spring, The sweet blossoms Open to fill the air with an aroma of Nature’s womanhood, And the tender bees float from Stem to stem, Humming a tune of Her bosom and beauty, And gently stroking her breasts.

But soon, the scarlets and sharp yellows Will fade to golden brown. And the heavenly scent will be encased In a world of crystal tears. And the small delicate stems curl, Snap and fall into the dust Or rather, they are buried in a tomb of Blinding white And burning water.

But I always know that those Petals will once again unfurl, And warm the earth With reds, yellows, and whites, And show their silly face To the sun. </poem>

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