The Vicious Circle, A Poem

In ones, twos, threes,
Little groups,
They fell,
Into the lap of their Maker;
Still looking gorgeous…
Grieved, missed
By their loved ones
Still left on the tree…

Who knows;
Certainly not those
Innocent flowers,
Where their Maker
Will throw them into next;
what permutation,
which combination.

Inside a book,
Or around a temple idol’s neck,
In a woman’s hair,
Or in a flower seller’s basket,
In a brothel or a home
A tulip, orchid, or a rose,
A dog, cat, bird, reptile, or a human.

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