Years ago, in high school, I wrote a lot of poetry. Most of it was dark and depressing (big surprise, I’m sure), and a friend of mine wanted me to write them something happy, giving me the prompt of a flower for inspiration. “Daisy” is the poem that grew out of that conversation. My friend was not very pleased with the result, and I do wish that I had given the challenge more effort. That said, this piece has always been a reminder of the strange places inspiration can come from and what results when I follow such inspiration.


She has a chair in the corner of a little house

 She eats her meals, does her chores, quieter than a mouse

 She never seems to blink or stir when She is in your sight

 She knowingly just sits there as She deems to be her right

 She stares with fearful power, no mortal would ever seek

 She blinds whoever tries to keep with her dark eyes bleak

 She’s never been heard laughing, only stifled little smirks

 She somehow knows of all our dooms, finding humor in evil works

 She goes to school with innocents whose souls She could then bind

 She’d only need to play the friend for their lives to be signed

 She easily could lead them off like sheep before the slaughter

 She chooses to, for now, abstain lest someday they should prod her

 She’ll make them quake before her on the day they question deeper

 For She will someday then be seen as Daisy, The Soul Reaper.