There is no point in counting plants on this planet if they're fully sprayed with poisonous gunk. But we don't want to notice, we don't want to know or even hear that we are consuming poison.
No, keep it down! There is enough misery in this world already...
I often think that the way we treat these plants, is how we treat ourselves.
Meaning the tears I shed for this world, get wiped on to the ground by a cold breeze.
Warming my cheek like it does continuously with our seas.
Lord, you have me on my knees! Our plants these days, don't even look at bees, they now care more about fees and poisonous cheese!
The pain that my heart and head are fighting against. By what you have provided me with; compassion.
Other than the ones blinded due to a storm of sand; filled with dispassion.
My eyes can take it, defy every tear. Every single one is the water that the dry, oh-so-rough ground of this planet needs, to provide the opportunity for plants to live on,
to grow on, to go on.
It doesn't seem to interest our plants though.
For when we receive pollen from afar, is what we desire that those should blow back to their own greenhouses; which where bombed flat.
And as long as your peace has not returned. Healthy reasoning to you, is dead.
You want to be pollinated, so you ask the nearest butterfly, a distraction like the tikkeling of an ant.
That butterfly is a traveler, carried through the heavy wind by stories with the most beautiful colors and a wonderful scent.
As soon as the butterfly tells you how it got to your greenhouse - fled from a toad - your leaves let go and your branches feel stinged, as if it was a bee.
Only because that butterfly is a refugee.
It is looking for a greenhouse to survive catastrophe.
It is looking for a greenhouse to provide the earth with more green like you and me.
Increasing the oxygen level, so that you, I and the coming generations can enjoy living and growing on the soil that I had provided for you.
So that, we don't have to pant before catching a breath.
So that, those whose tears are turning rough ground into fertile soil, have a peaceful death.
That butterfly still works so hard, left everything behind, everyone.
Yes! You do the math!
Now if not dead, your arguments should be a lot more weaker.
Much more sleeker.
Yet, you're still telling me it's a fortune seeker.