Decom-Posuer

She’s a painting out of focus
With no good sense of intention
She’s authentic
She’s a model of disaster
With a heart of revolution
She’s so innocent
But guilty’s her plea
Everybody wants to save her from herself
They really want to save themselves
She’s got the grace of a tourist
With the charm of demolition
She’s a poem without a meter or rhyme
A random design of a flower
Like a rose, no one really knows
She’s a master
-piece deserving
Restoration or condemnation
Time will tell us if she’s a lifer or a decom-poseur
She is rose, no one really knows