whiteboard markers with unmistakable stenches

fill the air while i pen my realities that linger in mind

yes, may they linger. like the withered carnations

on my mother's windowsill -- old but still outstretched

they sit in crystal glass like some unmoving paradox.

broken and stale, yet still displayed as if they weren't decaying blossoms

but instead silently grandiose like a hushed Victorian waltz.

displayed also like the world's greatest treasure

as they lay while we shuffled on for what seemed like forever

but all things do decay into nostalgia.

yet at the same time, i put pen on whiteboard

pencil on paper -- and create a waltz in my own right

i write down forgotten words and bygone days

as i clench my fists while the hours run past me

as i arrannge the alphabetical

into the personally whimsical

under the pluck-strung chickenscratch

engraved on top of the never-permanent 

platforms of a blank whiteboard.