Carton of Roses

Amiability shades down a frown,

Surrounded by a carton of dead roses,

Stinking of bargaining. A man's eye closes

Down 'pon the doomèd sink. His death, this town.

The sand he lies upon doth spear his crown

With little granules that this man supposes

Chase the atrocities his mind collects in dozes

Deadened of dreams. This man's a blinded clown.

-

But every god forgets to laugh or cry,

To love or hate, to rule or die in pain,

And –sometimes, all those gods– the reasons why.

This man had reasons for his mad collection–

Cartonèd roses, to each girl a vain

Assault she captured with each whiffing try.