It was impossible to ignore thought of twisted concept and backwards logic. If flowers grow in perverse chronology we would be witness to their transformation of wilt to life to pre-existence. That is more bearable than knowing their beauty will die. If having the chance of rebirth were possible, for flowers, do you think they'd take it? Instead of being a new character each year. One for the gardener to contend with fiercely, "You must grow and blossom, so you will be perfect!" Take these additives, oh those vitamins are proven, if we spray that on you will look more radiant, less beaten down. The few small sacrifices. Without pain there is no beauty. What were they beaten down by? Why it was the gardeners of cause. The relentless. Speaking of all faults as a norm. With that awareness you are knowledgeable but ultimately cursed. We stood there and witnessed the most silent argument!
Images of knives, but you do not want to hear that one. Your curiosity may get the better of you, so we leave imagination to become your enemy. Mention the topic and you go wild. You'll have no limits, it is boundless. They could be in intrinsic dance, swirling overhead, the flash of danger catches the light. Now and again. They could be taking action. Slice, cut, chop, slash. Ouch? The wallpaper would never unpeel with age but instead slowly retreat. Overcome by the memory of its Jury bound life. The slow and painful process begins. Pushing you further and further away but being left always in the dirt room's presence. Instead of whispering 'please don't say it', it's okay to shout it out loud. In your face. Making you aware. It is the topic you most want to avoid, evident by materialistic conversation. But that is okay, I'm not really aware of anything you're saying anyway. Did I gasp in the wrong part of conversation? That should be evidence enough. Covered in injuries. What's your favourite number? I hate the notion of rugs. Dendrochronology would become a sham.
If the waves could wave but not crash. When they said hello we'd take the chance to return the favour. When they say goodbye - well when would that ever happen! Imagine the denial, you oxymoron.