wreaths:

hand in my lap
back to the precious fears we thought we stored so far from here
grit my teeth punch the wreath
it falls and leaves scatter across the floor
i wonder if this is a metaphor
i smirk and slam the door as more begins to fall, it is leaves galore
get a broom to sweep the mess when suddenly i must confess
its too much of a hassle to rearrange the disengaged
let it fend for itself, not much to do for such state of health
not even a reboot could contribute
gems and jewels, they too shall be tools
for the wealthy doesn't feel such grief as do these cheap wreaths attached upon a staple-piece that was never meant to be combined, we all will know it in time.