Youth is like a plucked rose–
loved with avarice eyes and
guarded in a well-lit shell that decomposes
with the stench of capricious fertilizer.
She is pretentiously trimmed and tailored,
fashioned in a glass vase,
voluptuous shapes, undulating in throes of desire
(a gift from snobby Sarah from Westchestor! )
Fiji water tepid, seventy-five degrees of adulterated dampness.
Under the artificial, phosphorescent lights
fungus sucking the wet, slimy juices,
and bottled perfume–Chanel No 5
(a thank you gift from the monster-in-law)
sprayed with unnatural gusto–
The petals begin to fall:
un
deux
trois
curling into a S, brown and heavy,
stem bent and lazy.
As the lights flickers
And the phases never linger,
objects scurry and hide,
bending and shying away
as footsteps become louder
and shadows grasp with desperation
as humanity fades
and determination stays.
