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Still Life
by MFrostDelaney
The roses from a bucket list displayed …
their pinks and reds propped in a kitchen glass,
persimmon golden cloth beneath, a mass
of perfect speckles spread, the twill dismayed
at being sprinkled orderly.
The hutch
is in its tidy corner, blue-gray frame
around the knick-knacks, also on their game:
the pitchers, plates all vigilant, as much
as possible. They’re hosting nothingness
within two chairs.
Alone, alone mutes out.
That is what such a scene is all about–
no crookedness, no flaws–just show finesse.
Refinement is the perfect, wanted life,
dysfunctions banned. But that comes at a cost:
the Eves and Adams gone, all humans lost.
The cloth has nothing to protect from strife.
This still life longs to breathe, show off, be scarred,
shatter glass, deluge–no-holds-barred.
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