Theory of plasticity

Plastic plants make me sad
I wonder why
I sit and I ponder
I wonder because what else is there to do

The reason, I think, is constancy
It's life is bare, devoid of change
Maybe.
Or maybe it is choice that it lacks.

Maybe it is because it cannot
soak in the sun, or shiver
in the cold dewy winter mornings
Or wither and die

Something about its choicelessness
tingles my melancholic bone. Maybe.
But then, rain makes me happy and
has it any choice about its falling.

Death is the road to awe...bah!

I am a new man today. I died yesterday. Or is it more appropriate to say that I was killed. The knife went right through me. She was gentle. I felt no pain. I am a new man today. Death as an act of creation. I dodder towards tomorrow. I am fine but for the dead man on my shoulder. Rigor mortis has set and his vice like grip on my neck is getting oppressive. I am fine. Really.