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and displayed you
where all could see
your complete lack
of temerity.
Somewhere distant,
there is a constant droning,
like angry bees in a far-off tree,
and then a stuttering,
as a name slips by
a tongue
confounded
by
the
syllables.
An uncomfortable silence follows
as embarrassed witnesses
suddenly find the tile pattern
very interesting.
The buzz of meaningless words concludes
with a comedy of well-wishers
filing out
of this most sacred place,
placing great mounds of roses upon you,
uncaring of their sickening effect
on your life.
A ceramic jar,
painted with loving hands,
awaits what is now coccooned
in white satin.
Forlornly, it sits atop the mantlepiece,
(which is also undergoing a new face-lift)
in a house that has lost
it's laughter,
and with it,
it's heart.
One person remains
dry-eyed and stoic,
as the acrobats and word jugglers
dance by her;
a confused and angry child,
who can only watch
as the adults
play
at mastering the game of life,
and reaping
the payoffs of death.
She sneaks away,
tucking the jar beneath her coat,
stopping at the tiny garden
behind the kitchen,
to carefully snip
several perfect daisies,
place them carefully in the jar,
then make the trek
up the hill,
where, beneath the cypress,
freshly-churned earth
is marked with stone,
and covered in the hated roses.
She pushes them
violently
into a pile
to be burned,
with stolen matches,
when the circus moves on
and cannot witness it.
Placing the daisy-filled jar
beside the stone,
she lays a lone, yellow bloom
upon her mother's
earthen blanket.
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