The Flowers

The flowers standing in the crystal vase,
Exploding with bright colours and strong scents,
Invade my melancholy. Incidents
From someone else's past garner applause,
The flowers, lovely, fresh, and without flaws,
Win admiration from the indigents
Who spend their time here; packing up their tents,
They're sleeping here now, on a bed of straws.

I hate them all, and they despise me, too,
For letting them move in and sucker me
Into allowing them their dignity
While begging for food. I remember you:
Aromas fill the air, soft and untrue,
The way they did when you were playing through.