The soft mattress sighs under my tips,

a girl of beauty rests on the mattress,

her face white with a head of sleek leather,

eyes round, golden, metallic.

 

Is it the flower’s fault when it breaks in the storm?

 

The pitter patter of rain echoes in my ear,

the rain morphs into tears as the ground collapses into it,

my mother strokes the snowed face gently,

as her fingers travel, the white turns to porcelain,

and the flairs that teem beneath

consign to oblivion.