I like that vase of daisies on your table
wrapped in cellophane and cheap intentions.
Given to you as some kind of apology
or day to celebrate.
I lean over to give a closer look
at this torturous virtue of giving flowers.
The daisies are left to drink stale water
without its roots to do the work.
I smell the fragrance of death
that is slowly falling on one side.
The field has six less daisies
and we are all feeling dead inside.
The falling petal
the burning metal.
The filthy, rising trash mound,
the dusty, sinking, open ground.