The musty room of mine

I romance the pressed flowers of a woebegone time, bygone.
A woebegone time? Was it or is it now?
I wonder if the gaeity lies on a rug all alone
By the fireplace in deep slumber?

The pressed flowers in the scrapbook play a fragrant melody.
The words that lay dead to the world caress the ashes of the roses
Spring into a song, unabashedly
With a fuschia pink rouge.

The musty walls of a room that I think about often
Is a room splendidly imagined;
Where the perfume from a cold evening lingers.
I pick it up on my fingertips deftly to savour the scent of today.

The room shatters as I lift the burden of yesterday
From my fragile eyelashes.
On my mantlepiece is a candle that lights up the face of today;
The candle that once was the drowsy fireplace.