The Girl With The Plastic Flowers
Reposed on top shelf walls,
The mute and starry eyed orphans
Parade their affected wares
With sulking optimism
And foolhardy charade,
To the tuxedoed platoon of the kingly elect
As the fever hot breath of July’s damnation
Cradles the catatonic herd
With animatronic embrace,
Where the spoiled flesh
And desolate machines are shill bedfellows
Betwixt the dividing lights,
For cruelty has been made queen bee
In their crumbled hive,
Where the honey is boiled
While the bees are yet alive.
And the moon is a punch drunken derelict
That festoons her cigar box bed with stingy haunt,
As snub gun noses press smoke signal sighs
That lend a smudge of fog
To lonely aged windows,
And the audacious hope and illusionary snares
In this chamber of youth mirage
Return a spectral projection
Of shell shocked stares
And eternal reflection,
With mirror eyes that bear witness to a panoramic visage of burdens,
Yet cannot wipe away a soul dribbled tear.
She sits on broken glass and holds plastic flowers,
Ready for her quaking applause and a prodigal’s party,
One ripe with white noise symphonies
And blood red balloons,
Begging strains of rhapsodic ear worms to lay their eggs
In the trembling and tentative chapters
Of her dust mound heart,
But nobody picks her number today,
And her song is yet unsung
As naive melody sinks meek into a silent grave
And the lottery of the rejected,
Shuffle back to steel caged skies
With tomorrow a teasing ghost
Of salvation or Judas.
She leaves her plastic flowers on the windowsill
And her bed is sonoran drywall
Outfitted as a coffin of cheap surrender
Waiting for oblivion
Or heaven’s everlasting arms;
And she knows that God is not helpless,
And she knows that God is not cruel,
And the ebony mares of midnight,
Gallop straight for the sun soaked trough of noon,
And the girl with the plastic flowers
Will wake up very soon,
And may today she be gifted a sunrise,
That finally wills her flowers to bloom.