White roses on the patio,
I don't see much in front,
I don't see much at all,
Stood stranded in the fog of misremembrance,
The secondary overlap of this that and now,
Did the streaks in the pavement give it away?
It didn't stand a chance to hold much longer,
The flood gates open to see the death of me,
The death of the thing,
The fickle reality that bears its teeth and growls
The sections in the cake at night which child cries about,
But not me,
No not me,
Ever stood behind the vine,
Behind the screen door watching me.