That of a plastic leaf. A plant straining to be. A home with rooms too empty. That is despair. Or hope. For the dusty plastic plant brings color like the red on a coffin. No life, but color just the same. And though the emptiness is cruel, a room too empty might bring the possibilities of warmth. Of love. Touch. Echoes of life upon its naked walls. A woman with a plastic plant and rooms too empty is too, full of despair. And hope. She loves the one who presses and pushes. Who lashes and burns. But there is hope. "Grow old. Grow weary. The best is yet." She knows this to be true. The plastic plant shines its strained green. The room is used for touch And echoes. Laughter covers the naked walls. The lashes and burns now weary. Evolved. Grown. Transformed. Not replaced. For replacement is an escape. A childish ploy. To transform is from despair to hope. And so she travels in one spot. Now by his side, laughter at the red on the coffin. For they brought color. And life. She holds his weary hand. And the naked wall echoes, "The best is yet."