I planted my flowers in a storm without a center.
Everything they needed poured onto them from the wind.
The higher they grow, their roots go deeper,
And the more they feel the pouring sky above the heads.
They asked me when the rain would stop, and I answered,
Telling them they were planted in a storm without an end.
Since then my flowers have gotten quieter,
And I don't really know what they perceive or understand.
The answer was simple, but they seem desperate to comprehend.
What it means to be a flower is beyond me,
And beyond them, I'm beginning to suspect.
They were lost in the storm and looking for themselves.
Growing up and growing old, evolving in place.
Whatever meaning they may have, might blow by them perchance.
Unfortunately, they're all quite mad.
The extent of Justice
Limited by selfishness or fortune.
As is the extent of Love
limited by hate or the void.
The tyrant, to me more despicable
Than emptiness, the more strong.
Rage breeds destruction
As the quiet breeds death.
Nations, values, and ideals
Live or die by chance.
Time devours all there is
Noble, wicked, or in-between.
Hollow hearts crave sensation
As the sick and dying crave life.
The disimpassioned mistrust love
Misery, ever the more reliable.
Conquest or chaos seem like
Solace to the dispirited.
Surely anything is better
Than dwelling on empty chasms.
If chance dictates love
I can play it win or lose.
If purpose is a pipe-dream
I can revel in fantasy.
If ignorance is bliss
Then sadness is the more profound.
If life is pain
I’ll take it over nothing.