Household Dystopia
The Sun, without notice, rises
Upon our individual dystopia;
Garden grown amok, overtaken by
Weeds rampant—intertwined with
Floral carcasses.
A fatal reality of decay, brought forth by
Negligence, perhaps coupled with bright
Streaks of depression, and its consequent sloth—
All the while,
Nothing was there to be done;
No unwinding of this tangled,
Graying yarn—
As we spent days chasing bread,
and slip past nights, nibbling on
Cheese, then poisonously chasing it down,
Not sleeping, but passing into
Unconsciousness, ruing our Daylight gone.
A bundle of rotting Roses,
Burgundy and Brown,
Sitting slanted and splayed
Unfittingly in a vase oversized—
We are.
Yet here, maybe there; somewhere—
Under the caressing of Morning rays
In pastel, there is a vague, indescribable
Beauty to it all.
Particular Moments 