She was a flower,
a dandelion
a weed in all her beauty
dancing in the brush.
A cinematic princess
of a garden full of insects
and though she's just pretty face
for asphyxiation,
she is the sun's paradox.
She feared the honest moonlight
would reveal her for what she was,
so she never opened her eyes to shade.
Light was her only fortress.
Her pollen-obsessed girlfriend
was found buzzing by a Lily,
as if a blossom had more class than her.
Such treachery taken out on an infant
maple tree,
once growing in her shadow,
soon to be the caster.
Our weeded Mary didn't dance that day,
didn't flirt with the bugs.
They thought she died or wilted.
What they hadn't suspected was fraud.
Little Mary dandelion hadn't been murdered.
She was hiding from the sun and in a
tree trunk no less;
caught red handed writing in the dark.
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