A dead memory. How quaint,
With rhythm in its’ veins.
A flower blooms with surprising moments
of simple stationary confusion.
The flower in my mind, of course.
What can I do now?
My reactions are timed perfectly.
Will I lie to you now?
You don’t trust me anyway.
It starts with random impulse,
then becomes nothing but random gibberish.
No meaning.
No coherent thought.
At least, not to be found.
I’m ever impatient and young.
Won’t you forgive me this once?
No sudden inspiration comes upon me.
Just a flower blooming with
surprising moments of simple stationary
confusion.
Go figure…
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