In a pale green crisp, their mouths are drawn. Dead flowers dangle for the floor when they once reached the sky. They see no promise and ask for nothing. Stark stems with no petals lean over in a stiff position. They are smoldered and fried, sun soaked and tied. In a string, on a hook, hanging down across a look once tried. Of glamor and admiration gone far away. Their smells turn dry until there is only the sweet aroma of yesterday that fills a room with no sky. Floored, torn and scratched on a wall running down. Their colors are muted.