Image from Wikimedia Commons
He slithers into another bed of roses
Or some flower he does not care for
Like a catchy song someone composes
Out of a need to move on and ignore
Or a beautiful painting someone sketches
Only to wrap it safe inside a drawer
We are all going to die one day
She says something of that sort
And whispers this is okay.
He rolls his eyes, Great. An intellectual escort
But then he grins like a child’s essay
That went a word too far
What about him, what about her
Are words that neither say
Souls, promises, lace and fake animal fur
Lie on the floor thrown away
Desperate to remove who they were
If only for three quarters of a day
He does not say much, never had
She stares ahead and stares beyond
Another boy trying hard to be bad
One of them brunettes acting blonde
She smiles at her joke and what she had
He smiles back to politely respond
They return when all is done and done
Nothing much was said anyways
To lives which are but episodes rerun
Away from a man’s silence and a woman’s okays
Back to souls, promises, daughters and sons
Back to beds of roses,
Or some flower.
