The Stranger

There's a stranger
With a dark brown hat
He smiles at me
From across the room
And into my hands
He slips a stiff stack
Of patient love letters;
Words traced in ink
He sends seven dozen
Bright, verdant flowers
Beaming with beauty
They sit in a vase
And we sit and talk
On a bench in the park
He tells me bright things
That should make my heart sing

Yet it doesn't.
It sits.
And through his letters
I see strings of lies
In his flowers
I find bugs and decay
And in his words
Shined up and polished
I'm not clear and certain
To whom his compliments are addressed
For he is a stranger
And all he sees
Is a healthy body
Yet I am a girl
With a heart and a soul
The stranger tries his hardest
To unwrap the wrappings
And untie each ribbon
To reveal this great gift
That I hide
Very deeply
But I must leave
Before he succeeds

For in death
I find greater comfort
Than to be lied to,
And viewed as
Means to pleasure

By a stranger,
A darkened stranger.