I walk in the white flower garden,
One block of peace
In a mountain of steel,
Glass, smoke, and grease.
The flowers have tattooed
Their white petals brown,
Exposed their stems
For a night on the town.
They speak of old flowers
Who once shared their bed,
How far their particular
Pollen has spread.
You can watch how they wilt
While they boast that they thrive
And you wonder why bees
Opt to stay in the hive.
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