Roses, heavy with sensual vanity,
The same red as the flush across her breasts, or your blush when she praised you.
A delicious apple sliced with a good silver knife,
And the lazy knowledge of the white china bowl containing its seven sisters.
Cave flowers, grey as an old dusty book,
Falling apart like brittle pages of bad poetry best forgotten.
Bone fruit so dry it shrivels the tongue,
So un-nourishing that each bite brings emptiness, starvation.
It is skull candy, dream-rot, sick-music.
It is all that's left.