and charnel prose,
sprinkled with a mystic promise.
Sordid mildewed fares and tokens,
all truth unspoken.
Artful, pretty proclamations,
lullabies to misplaced fancy.
and faithless present,
no shining future I’ve to tend.
A blind eye turned-
then quickley burned.
I listen to my sage excuses,
these silly muses.
Ashes fed to dying flame;
no guilt or shame.
Just this plant I tried to fuel,
conceived of plastic leaves and shoots;
there are no buds, no colored blooms…
no grasping reaching hungry roots-
for nothing living ever grows
in cold and silent,