Narrative

Fading Youth

Youth is like a plucked rose–

loved with avarice eyes and

guarded in a well-lit shell that decomposes

with the stench of capricious fertilizer.

She is pretentiously trimmed and tailored,

fashioned in a glass vase,

voluptuous shapes, undulating in throes of desire

(a gift from snobby Sarah from Westchestor! )

Fiji water tepid, seventy-five degrees of adulterated dampness.

Under the artificial, phosphorescent lights

fungus sucking the wet, slimy juices,

and bottled perfume–Chanel No 5

(a thank you gift from the monster-in-law)

sprayed with unnatural gusto–

The petals begin to fall:

un

deux

trois

curling into a S, brown and heavy,

stem bent and lazy.

As the lights flickers

And the phases never linger,

objects scurry and hide,

bending and shying away

as footsteps become louder

and shadows grasp with desperation

as humanity fades

and determination stays.

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