The Evening Primrose blooms only at night.
She unfolds dusky yellow petals in an embrace and, if you ask, She will tell you the moon has been lonely; busy peeling her craters open for a taste of warmth from the sun. Her moans have become melancholic-- "How solitary my existence, with only the babbling brook and hooting owl for company. Oh! What a wretched existence is this!" She turns her face from that which adores her. She is drowning in self-pity, teeter-tottering about her axis as if she is the only body in this universe. |
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