Man is no open bouquet And blooms only in himself. He is beauty fed by filth Soiled by being grounded. He has seeds but no roots Sits in a vase of pixels Envying forget me not’s Amok in freedom In cots of color. Dressed to the nines in nine to five He bleeds in to water Under strip lights barely alive Bowing his overgrown but once proud head To curled petals on the filing cabinet Keen to be admired Always replaced And more alive when dead.