Plastic roses do not die,
they remain frozen in timeless dust.
The dust that heralded our death.
And, as we drowned,
they sat watching.
They watched it whole.
The purple dust of dreams.
The blue dust of breath.
The white dust of stifled words.
Our rainbow death,
coloured the plastic roses red.
Then the rain came from the hills,
and the plastic flowers cried,