Vanity Calls


Vanity herself stands at the bar
Cell phone in hand, talking to Death.
A single wrinkle adorns her face.
One gray hair graces her head.

You're still beautiful Death assures her
Like a rose on a summer's day.
A rose in full bloom, my petals stretching.
In only days I'll begin to wilt.

Youth sneaks in dressed as a gardener
Plunges his shears between her ribs.
Gasping, she collapses into a crimson pool.
She whispers thank you into the phone.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem