the Perspective of a Bedroom Rose

 

my little corner of this house is little among the great number of houses that surround this house

yet, this corner of mine––my bedroom you see––is Big to me

 

while life continues outside––people talk, people drive.

people love and they scheme

others hate and they dream

while some go sour, others stay sweet

––only to sour later if life has them beat

 

But this is aside––

for my life is quite different, here: inside.

 

i am a flower, wilted on a desk.

forgotten, rotten, standing alone––an utter mess.

 

my life has lost color, my stem has gone soggy

i am no longer fresh––no longer crisp, just floppy.

 

overused, overripe.

dank in smell, dense in the lack of color.

 

i now lack of shine, and am unsure of this purpose of mine.

my body ages, along with outside,

and my eyes have glazed over in the grey color of life, like my body, like outside’s light.

 

Yet i’m still here.

 

do you now get my spoiled aura?