They were like cut flowers,
arranged but deranged in some
basic way, which is to say, their
smiles were frozen, never chosen.
They did not cheer;  they mirrored
one another. They did not lead;
they followed. Their laughter was
hollow. Their problems stemmed
from being cut from their emotional
roots:  They'd root for the home
team, but it seemed they'd never
grow, never know the joy of letting
go, only the cant, the chanting
of school yells, a fool's hell
for not feeling. At best, their
beauty was pressed and dried;
Too bad they died, devoid of
themselves. We must put them
on our shelves to gather dust.