Waves of deep pure shimmer in the background.
A muffled roar of anger rumbles in the distance.
The white gardenia in a clear glass bowl
Doesn’t smell as sweet as memory recalls.
All the wight of merely being is a burden.
The cuckoo clock is running slow
And needs to have its chain pulled down.
The shutters on the windows are all closed
And the walls are painted in a cheerless hue.
The tablecloth is cluttered up with  nothings
That demand attention but give no reward.
The painting in the attic slowly ages
While the face seen in the mirror stays the same.
The creaking hinges of existence
Slowly start to close the door
And all the butterflies are left outside.
kjm