Rain fell on the window pane.
Seeping through the cracks,
Causing mold, and mildew.
Rotting the wood.
A pile of newspapers
Yellowed in corner of the room.
Proposing oxymoronic thoughts
Of old news.
The jewelry box on the night stand
Is filled with fifty different rings.
Some gold, some silver, some gaudy.
But all of them much too big.
A blown glass vase from 1928
Is the most beautiful thing in this place.
It houses a bouquet of crispy, brown peonies.
I'm letting all my flowers die.
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