Let Them Eat Flowers

I am among the wild French Horns this evening

People are shouting in Iraq

But on the coast of England we hear only butterflies

Melting cakes

As a spider would crawl down the valley of hopelessness

And drips of the tiresome bronze would fill my basket

It seems I've lost the world in the same hand

That held its flour

Author's Note

Any and all comments are greatly appreciated.