a bowl
of plastic fruit
dusty things
futile
yet placed
in the center
of the table
a mixed message
of inferred class
in petroleum based
falseness

i don’t
understand
fake flowers
lifeless
imitations
plastic fruit
in wicker bowls
facades
used to
placate
a false sense
of living
in a world
of mimicry

i watch myself
wilting
in an empty vase
my petals
falling to
the table
surrounded by
imposters
looking every bit
as vibrant
as when they
were dropped
from the mold