I hear stories of bright,
Much like sunlight and sights,
Of good-lucks and loves,
Kind sites and loyal trusts,
Like white yellow daffodils.

And none of those with yellow below,
Never told of those so,
Those that stretch over the bluffs,
Those succumbed to feel loved,
In hope of a smile that appreciated a deserve.
Lulled if I were
a fine sow or a ripened foe.

You hushed stories many,
Don't know what was reserved in reality,
Reversed fatally in futility,
If they deserved a bit loyalty,
Or were to be followed for vanity.
They flew far to many like white yellow daffodils
From past kith and kins,
Casted from ancestor's hills.

Breaking me down into many, 
Hushed in stories, 
A few of mine, I've written to myself,
A few of yours, I've read to myself,
A few them, I've fed to myself,
However, still,
It's like I've have been,
In midnights and queries
among white yellow daffodils.

A few of mine, riverine,
A few of yours coming ashore,
A few of them with a gun and grin,
A few of mine pulling from behind,
The stories of white yellow daffodils,
Below a sky of timeless assassin,
I heard stories since I were sixteen,
Holding back an armor for nine, from time,
Asking me if I could be mine,
Among white yellow daffodils from salty mines.

I have heard stories many,
Don't know what reserved in reality,
Reversed fatally in futility,
If they deserved a bit loyalty,
Or were to be followed for vanity,

I've heard stories far just to many,
Like queries uncanny in infancy,
Fancied among white yellow daffodils,
However, still,
It's like I've been in many,
In midnight queries
among white yellow daffodils.