The fake flowers on the drawers. That beauty which makes death feel ignored, But looks unripe in any vase And isn’t right for wedding cars -
Their petals never sought to solve His seven word soliloquy. There’s no rose bed on recovery When after all, she loves him not.
He knows it from their scrutiny, That untimely unchapped litany That blush of plush longevity Adored; while he withers.
Mr Smith’s preferred were pansies, For ‘their faces crumpled under sunlight’, He’d shuffle stems like decks; green necks To warm and sweeten death.
The pansies were his calendar - Life measured against death Kept his watches ticking; The thirsty amber skins were pages comprised
Of how he hated plastic petals With a pale and putrid pith, Their purpleness was slothful And their pulchritude a myth
Of mocking murmurs mumbling Memories - As insipid as the very falseness Binding up their limbs - Of the August day in ‘54 When the fake flowers on the drawers Were white against her whiter brow - As perfect then, as they are now.
one I wrote thanks to the advice of a very dear friend and a knock-out lyricist