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Death to Roses
March 20, 2014
There is an artist
Who took ten thousand roses
Alive and beautiful
And left them in a room
To wither and die.
And because she put them in that room,
For the world to see their death
It was considered art.
The death was worth something.
So if I send out flyers.
Told everyone I know to come see me,
Without any explanation.
Then curl up on my bed
And let the red
Run out of me.
Cry
And wither.
Just like those flowers.
Would I be worth something then?
(Or would my suffering be just a product of art?)
© Yisrawayl G., Philadelphia, PA
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