Over Ripe

A man walks into a room to smell the wallflowers to find their petals plucked Perplexed at first, he grimaces then glowers Some people have all the luck The sweet yet fetid smell of nearly rotten fruit in a dank and dark corner Wafts in the air like muffled notes of a flute or the whimper of a quiet mourner I pick up the scent of mint or maybe basil and scoop up a wilted leaf It's not yet brown but turning a little hazel and I hand it to the bereaved We share an over ripe plum and a pomegranate with a timid shrinking violet Such is the ephemeral nature of a dying planet when we're all deaf and we're all silent