Sonnet of the Death of the Man who Invented the Plastic Rose
The man who invented the plastic rose is dead. Behold his mark: his undying flawless blossoms never close but guard his grave unbending through the dark. He understood neither beauty nor flowers, which catch our hearts in nets as soft as sky and bind us with a thread of fragile hours: flowers are beautiful because they die. Beauty without the perishable pulse is dry and sterile, an abandoned stage with false forests. But the results support this man's invention; he knew his age: a vision of our tearless time discloses artificial men sniffing plastic roses. Peter Meinke
