Air locks in rose stems,
cause their heads to droop.-
Tricks with needles, newspaper,
and buckets of cold water, like magic;
bring forth their majesty again.
The rose is not the same however.
Its beauty, is only bejeweled,
in the color of before.
Nothing has taken place
within the alchemy of intervention.
The flower has touched reality.-
or rather we have lost the dream state.
And our perceptions of the wonder of it all,
lie as fallen petals, within the harshness of a city.
No comments:
Post a Comment