His Forever Plastic Flower

His Forever Plastic Flower by Odin Roark Before the war, He had no fears, No worries, No… Today he has his bench. He really shouldn’t complain, But… “How come,” he wonders, “How come my stars stay so cruel? They don’t give me luxuries, Nor burn down my bench, They just keep me off balance, Like the incessant flip of a quarter, Spinning its blurring dance Between heads and tails.” He knew his disorder was getting worse. Like so many homeless vets, He too was starting to chase his street-reliant shadow, Stomping it here, Kicking it there, Like a maniac after a ghostly enemy. “Why must my heart continue to beat, But not with life, Merely blood rushing to and fro, Sloshing about looking for Something alive inside?” Subway trashcans remained his daily fix, As another day, Another horoscope Supplied his disillusion with a dreamer’s transfusion of trust, Always inserting its sterile needle, To feed a habit of “wanting to believe” promises, Unless today the astrologer blew it. Even so… He soldiers on, Thankful to still have some faith left, A bench to sit upon, His forever plastic flower to dream on, And new memories serving to comfort him from back when.