Poems by Darren C Swartland

Within the palms of his hands
were placed quite a plentora of
options he should select from;
riches galore stood dangling above,
to the left were a world's secrets,
on the right appeared endless years,
below him was a cure for all illnesses.
The central spot had belonged to love,
a gift the mortal man chose to grasp,
which he sowed an eternal feeling of;
that continues through his descendants.

You're not the kind of flower that will attract a deer wandering through but you'll draw in butterflies when it's time to burstfully bloom. Love need not stand out among the crowd, your mythology has significantly sung aloud, enchanting my heart as if it were endowed.