A Flower Poem

How strange it is to be 
inside a flower comb
of plastic, or rose, or gerbera, or glass?
How long will she stay alive
in a place pre-prepared, implanted with
artificial green
surrounded with polyester-covered fingers. 
How long 
before she fades
before her face turns into a plasticine 
trumpery for children to destroy. 

Body dressed 
in a nightgown of leaves withers quickly 
petal by petal.
Our white eyelids shut tight. 
The plastic cover hardens
leaving the air cold.

Agnieszka Jakubczak's questions:

Could you tell me please how to make it a more grammatical and a stronger poem.

What did you think of it?