And titillated
By those rotund bumblers’
Dangling feet
Have been cut short
I am no longer bathed
In the luxurious warmth
From the globe of illumination
Or sprinkled and splashed
With succulent life
Instead, my severed stem
Was doused in tepid tap water
While my head careened
Against cold, imprisoning glass
To droop, dispirited,
Thirsty for hope
I know full well
My buxom fragrance
Permeates
This spiritless box
Yet I find nostrils
Inserting themselves
Between my silk petals
As if they could inhale
Angelic bliss
Before I am to be
Casually discarded,
Heaped with tomorrow's
Repugnant coffee grounds
Alas,
‘Tis the cruelest of jokes
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