My hands have lost their way.   Lost their grip.   The unspoken sense of

These are empty vessels at my side where I once held faith as though it
were a flower.   Raised before my eye, studied, pinned behind my ear.
Red.   Pink.   Gold.

I see your face, white against the flush of petals.   Lying upon your
revenge bed.   Your hot and aching mind sleeps now though mine may not.
There are pieces of you, scattered and splayed.


You knew I'd find you and you did not care.


And so it is that in your honour I have placed a plastic carnation.
Purple with artificial brilliance.   Plastic petals cannot be strewn, nor
leave mess, nor rot.   They are the idea of what a flower should be.   


I have no idea what you should have been.   Only what you now are.  



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