Black polythene bag sailing the skies,
Tell me little about you.
Spill your secrets like fries,
Shooting out from their paper bag.
Your obsidian wrinkles don’t have nothing on you,
You wizened old hag.
How does it feel like to fly?
You don’t even have wings,
But you crest the thermals with the raptors,
Sharing your airspace with nobility.
Even the grungy vultures add you in their chapters.
I feel sorry for you,
Trapped on a pylon,
Flapping forlornly in the whistling wind,
Like a scarf made of nylon.
Tattered like a madman’s wig.
You were once the pick of the bunch,
Adaptable and multifunctional,
Forgive the tautology,
But who would have thought?
That you would be let go.
“You’re rubbish” is what is being taught.
It’s not like you’re bad or anything,
You’re just no longer wanted.
The Louis Vuittons and the Jimmy Choos,
Even the cheap fakes are preferred to you.
Their insipid designs they choose.
But it’s cool.
You held far more important things,
Than make up and fake jewellery.
That only you and the chamber pot exchange giggles over.
I know right!
You’ve lived a grand life.
So fly you polythene bag,
Remember you’re not a poly thing,
And that the names will fade.
They take their mortality too seriously,
But your half-life transcends these petty organics.
Bon voyage mon ami!
© Sena Frost 2015