Title: Flowers
by kay | in writing, poetry
Pick the roses smell the poses
Count and pluck, on sticks we'll stuck
To the market we'll take these flowers
We'll sell the roses to the showers
Boxes and flowers
Funeral flowers
Boxes with flowers
For you
Your mother is gone
And soon I'll be too,
Don't despair
Our troubles are shared
Us and our nations, our people.
All doomed
Now.
everyone in boxes
Lets us go,
We'll need to pick more roses.
A village of aids paitents. A dead mother. Working son and father. Funeral flowers.
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