Much Ado About Nothing

I go to the flowers,

those that are on display

along footpaths in a garden,

a meaningless array

of frail necks in stupid frills.

Necks, just necks-

headless, spineless nothingness

toting the sun, the day;

stiff necks, droopy necks,

half loops of life

needled into going on.

They shan't be touched for they

are the grower's pick.

They may be lusted after, wanted

but they shan't be had.

They may be nibbled at

by their seers,

they may be shredded by the jeers

of the feet that pass them by.

They may be fucked like that

but they shan't be plucked.

So I go to them with this

forced upon my heart.

I go to them when they

are perhaps, aching to be away,

somewhere near the bank,

somewhere on the hills,

these necks in unreal frills.

I go to them and say,

"Hey, you aren't pretty."

Then I kiss them with a breath

and they sway.

"Haha! That's like it, darlings."

And then when I walk away,

I'm sorry they were

brought to bay.

Some are sown, some are sewn-

why must it be so?

"Never mind", pokes the sun

as it turns to go.

I unbutton the sky and lo!

I find them again, on its chest,

those shoots

that shan't be touched or plucked.

I find them in frills, tucked

into the night; sewn to the sky

while underneath my boots

pass them by.