The flowers in my mind are growing just fine.
Lots of minerals in the sands of time.
All these gardens I meticulously tended to are mine.
I have blood-red roses and sunburst yellow dandelions.
Welkin-blue hydrangeas in erratic lines.
Emerald-green chrysanthemums that shine.
Resplendency in the negative spaces,
endeavouring to conceal the tenebrosity in obscure places.
Call me a selfish gardener or a recollection farmer.
I water these gardens with tears of lost dreams.
I sing to the flowers with my mute screams.
but all my visitors will ever optically discern,
is my garden of unparalleled beauty.