Dead flowers, tied to a lamp post,
Hang their brown, ugly heads in the rain.
On a concrete island in a sea of traffic
I wait and I wonder who died here,
Who’s life was crumpled like the plastic wrapping
Around those rotting blooms.
The wind grabs, sucking flat my mangled umbrella.
Why am I still clinging to it when I’m already drenched?
Like some feeble line thrown my way when I was drowning;
‘Time’s a great healer,’ or ‘They’re in a better place.’
– by Jamie