a po-ehm
		by harperr
sometimes
i grow weary of picking up the flowers you toss aside,
swearing they were weeds.
you say you will only be surrounded with beautiful things
and i worry that you will tire of my plain colours.
but still i follow,
gathering the wilted fragments that fall in your wake,
and i weave them into my hair
and i dance in their sweet fragrance
as you storm ahead;
searching for your plastic castle.