Into this flowered field I stream,
My pockets ripe with currency,
Any type I wish to see, for real or dream,
Displays it's pheromones to me,
In hope that I will sow its seeds,
It gives me its nectar freely to drink.

This virile vial completely full,
Spilling over, swills and pulls,
The Godly instinct to try them all,
Empties flowers until petals fall,
Instilling in each one the Flaw.

Blame not me, nor the bee for its sting,
Innate is desire to have everything,
And insatiable greed to drink all I see,
Keen to its rational impossibility,
So instead of a field living beautifully,
I cage a wilting bouquet, irresponsibly.

And as it is with all living things we know,
If we cannot help it grow,
We should not claim it,
But leave its beauty alone.

T.W. Jolin