I work with my roses on a bright day,

Cutting the dead branches and leaves away

Humming softly, enjoying my time here

With no uncertainty, no hint of fear.

I keep what I want; the rest goes to waste,

With each flower prettily preened and placed

Amongst the wall, to hide me from the glass

I ignore the crystal palace won't last.

I turn a blind eye to the war each day

Prefer to pretend I've got the last say

Perfectly primp all my delicate blooms

As my skeletons hide in clean, jeweled tombs.

My garden will be perfect – so I say

Ignoring that my flowers die each day

Asters, roses, and crocuses galore

Petals falling, withering, now no more.

I grasp my flowers; my teeth grit in vain

And though I know I ought not to complain

I gaze at the ceiling, say to the sky

"Why have you caused my whole garden to die?"

It was all an illusion of control

I was never the master of my soul.

(172 words)