Flowers.. blissfully cuddled amongst their counterparts dripping from the rain without hearts.
Thorns and petals might tear apart. Walls breaking where humans would make art, start vivid heart beats.
Flowers need no release.
They have no concern for the birds and the bees, with their entanglement feast.
Flowers need no release.
Fantasies dart about them. There's something smart about them.
There's a heart above them.
Held to her snout inhaling different forms of forgiveness for figuratively speaking...
Should the flower form fond familiar feelings towards their fifth cousin getting plucked for something so redundent as love...
If the flower kept it's heart in the part of the story where a piece of their self is taken for decor on madam's shelf.
If the flower even cared...
It would be scared.
It would be heart broken and underprepared
Oh the joy of a flower that has no need for a heart.
The painless powerful presence of the breathe of Mother Nature's blissful joy.
To be a being who needn't breathe in pure seeming, stress relieving, sweet tasting oxygen.
And breathe out Carbon Dioxide.