Vestibulary

The Flag
A flag which snaps in a brisk breeze,
weighs a land so vast,
Lost in an age of glory a long time ago,
To be carried with the current of leaves in its funeral persession,
And resurrected for its perennial nostalgia.

The Suit
His musk is humble, but stains the wallpaper,
A rough sandpaper for a beard,
He buys top shelf pungency, to pour onto the floor,
The baritone voice radiates off walls, and gets undivided attention from across the room.
Everyone asks, "where can I get a suit like that."

Oil
That axle that screeches,
the black soup sprays violently,
the gore within the internal cumbustion,
the mechanic wears a small black veil,
cradles the engine in his arms.