to summer flowers:

The flowers in my house are dying. 

They lay in heat waiting for the bees and the nourishment of

Black soil. But I have tricked them into little tousled vases 

To go and sin no more.

Thick cut, shin split flowers. Little do they know they will be 

Chucked in a garbage pail tomorrow. But for now they glow

In that lumbering soft-petal way flowers do.

And they smell fragrant, and they smell like rot, and it makes me 

Want to drink whiskey and whisper to them in a silvery sweet sugar 

Voice that things will be ok even if they're not.

No comments:

Post a Comment

I adore your notes! Please don't be shy! :)