The Languages of Flowers
Summer promises with blue eyes
Some passing fancy for the multitude
Some half remembered ritual,
But never speaks of love - or love's desire.
And we are contraband in a stolen moment;
Empty cradles rocking in an empty room
Pastel whispered endearments to sleeping ghosts
Who wax eloquent on nothing much
When awake
To while away some twilight time.
In the languages of flowers
Placed down for style in human terms,
Infinity lives in an orchid corsage
Pressed between the pages of a book
That has no lock and lays forgotten...
No lasting worth beyond the last dance.
And the languages of flowers are misspelled forever;
How much stronger in their meaning when first bestowed.
The silence in their words fills the air with fragrances
That last far beyond the memory of one summer's evening...
No matter how special
However far away....
In all the sweetest whisperings,
Why ask how this can be...
It probably has something to do with the warranty.
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