The plants need watering.
Prized possessions in succession on the sill,
once specifically selected for offering; loved by me still.
The leaves move south recessed in soundless surrender.
No blossom in bloom; dirt crumbles in vain.
Facing midday September sun
the shrubs fashion a curtain of shame;
shapes of light crawl on my carpet; marionettes
exchange dances, puppeteered by the breeze.
Fine theatre; and the pressure! Room
personifies and begs me to ascend! Advance! Seize!

The plants need watering.
Truth is caught in the brown and wilting;
sadness in ceramics. The leaves are leaving.
Botanical beauties, once centers of conversations
heralding my horticultural brilliance now
mere pillars of rude recollections.
Beneath, the heirloom decanter discarded,
distorted. All else is gone.
My mind is made.
Will wake early, ponder change, and likely
water the plants tomorrow.
Written by ursa
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Honoria Bluevelvete Cipher_O Penguinphile
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