humanity makes bunches of flowers.
always three hundred and sixty five per bunch.
some are beautiful.
some ugly.
throughout history, the varying appearances of the flowers have remained in balance.
but with every passing bunch
the bouquets become more twisted.
and it seems we may need some new gardeners 
to provide us with our daily flowers.

 

Why do we have bombs that could bring on the apocalypse in seconds?
But do we?
       Or do they?

When did we split into so many fragments?
Who toppled our mirror and shattered the glass?
           And placed us all precariously on the edge of dark?

Will anger and pride be the fall of our kingdoms?
Are they even kingdoms anymore?
           What is left of the former grandeur?
...