Odious

Yet the roses die
When you decorate your vase with them.
You know not their pain.
Your contrived euphoria
Spurious passions and odious celebrations
Are just objects of ridicule.
Yet I hate even to laugh at them.
You are just a poor caged bird
Heartless, soulless, mindless
Enjoying the gala of your own shameless games.
Burning in the fire of your
Hanker, crave and desire
You destroy the dreams of millions of flowers.
And yet I forgive you
Because you are just an obnoxious image
That must be erased from the memory
Finally and forever.