dressed as flowers in disguise.
How remorsefully obtuse they stood –
wrapped tight; about their neat closed cup.
My pretense over their acceptance
I know it will not last:
It’s as if, pretty and ugly
are both wearing the same mask.
So, I’ll stay, in the outline of this room
searching out, those bright red tulips.
For soon myself and they
will lessen their fresh faced bloom.
I can hear myself say.
I’ll sweep them under the carpet
the place, where secrets go to lie.