Night-blooming human head plants
can’t be counted on to conjure up
romance but they’re good company
when bleak Existence looks at you
askance and it is two o’clock
beyond redemption in the loneliness
of last chance sleepless night: when life
will not agree to any even slight degree
to help requite your least desire;
you're sinking in the mire, and things
are getting dire indeed. But then,
sometimes, as if they sense the need,
night-blooming human head plants heed
the plea: know what is required: a soft
endearing word. Once murmured –
and once heard – equivalently
captivating vegetation joins the chorus:
whispers more – therefore allowing you
to feel rapport with something actual –
a sweet reprieve you cleave to: better,
God knows, than the raw deal of your
own internal spiel. Oh, be relieved
night-blooming human head plants,
anyway, at least, are real.
.
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