The Coma Patient
The flowers died on a Monday.
Though I thought their life vibrant on Sunday.
They were given to me on Saturday.
Though I didn’t see them till Tuesday.
For I wasn’t there but here,
Sleeping in the darkness.
‘Cause the flowers were given to me on Saturday,
And my mother saw them on a Sunday,
And told me all about them.
They didn’t last long though because,
They died with me on a Monday.
Knocked over by a hurried nurse,
And left to dry on the floor.
The flowers died in a Monday.