Fragile Things
It’s a plump, white, fragile thing the breeze bobs on a stem that’s too thin,
Obscuring the success of a snapshot lacking the blur.
Clouds blot out the sun, the off white petals darkening with an unheard sigh,
my itchy finger is livid with a perplexing sensation caught somewhere between
rage and impatience.
It’s a momentary determination to be perfect, in the shadow of the greater things,
like a being, a predecessor, or an unspoken standard.
It won’t survive long.
The plump, white, fragile thing hangs on a weakling stem, perpetual sun drenched
skies impregnate the air with an age long procession of starkly rewarded endeavors.
It’s dying now.
The sun won’t come so the face is tilted, wilted, a lie. The camera snaps a fib of a plump, white, fragile
thing whose stem is held by deceit for the turnout of only one.
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