Time rattled your fair skin, carved its deep lines
Cruel sculptor, that unyielding artist's hand
Which stretched drying clay, which let expand
Improper shapes with curves that undermined
A knife was taken to cheekbones' incline
Against gravity, jowls could not withstand
Your widow's peak had left but one strand
'Twas not a benevolent god's design.

Yet your blue eyes shall never be opaque
Lucidity of the mind through them shines
As formless light, beyond art's own restraint
From time's own sands the glassmaker did take
To fashion your clear lenses without taint
Though lids may shut, the eyes remain awake.

Once upon a time, there lived a great bard
Who in musical spectacles did star
Drenched in cheap spirits, he would stay afloat
With tongue of silver and fine-gritted throat.

Fish out of water did he seem today
For from his audience was he away
Their grinning faces now replaced with stone
Such tired eyes, all glued to these smartphones.

But with a glint in his own eye, he spoke
And drew near-instant looks from the young folk
How merrily he gestured, how he joked
And in new knowledge did the students soak.

Apollo, Dionysus: both have blessed
This drunken poet on his secret quest.

Pale wisps trailed in front of a rounded moon
softening further the light
blanketing the white stones
of those who had departed too soon.

Here they lay in their shrouds
formed by absence,
the living who are not granted
darkness and gentle clouds.

“Bob, I can’t get them to laugh,” 
cried out the director
in great distress as she paced,

glancing back and forth

between the sullen audience

and wooden actors.
Stony faces, glassy eyes, 
plastic smiles: Bob had bought
the wrong components
for the production assembly.

“****** Bob, how much did you spend?”

Bob shrugged, pulled out

a handful of change from his pockets.
“Back to the store you go, Bob!”

He fumbled through the shelves,

cut his finger on an opened can,

the last one that was labelled 

“Laughter”.

They made a new flower,
those scientist people,
they say it's never gonna wilt
when we cut it off from the stem.

"A revolution", a big deal
for gardeners and florists and supermarkets
who'll never sell flowers
in the same way again.
Lots of flowers sitting around.

Sappy couples and sad families
buy all those flowers, pretty flowers,
now they just look nice
everyday. Today they're pretty
and tomorrow they're pretty,
the day after tomorrow
they're still pretty.

Buy 'em once, throw 'em once
on the graves or countertops,
they're here to stay now.
The same flowers just piling up.