Aloft,
you nod
and blush
and simper;
there is nothing to suggest
that your core is
full of worms.
Plastic smiles
and wooden nickels
are bread to your butter,
static to your cling.
You have cleverly hidden
the stench of death
under a fresh Febreeze,
but the day will come
when the nearest nose
will get more
than it bargained for…
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Oh Boy–I’m not sure where to go with a response. I’ll stick with, “It’s great work (wow-wonderful), Melody–and I LOVE the roses, fabulous!”
🙂 Thank you!