Middlemist camellia.

some things, if discovered about humanity, if I were to stop and list them, are recipes for my own, personal catastrophe.
I am a bit older now, and the garden I was born with, the one I involuntarily grow and fertilize, is large and overruling it almost suffocates me.
but it is beautiful, it is blindingly beautiful and I am sensitive to every birth of every leaf and every flower, I am sensitive to the rattle of the mud and the stuff of the passing mist.
Yet, it is all in vain. it is growing inwardly into and upon its self, slowly, grotesquely an entangled forest that  sets itself ablaze.
yes, there are things about humanity, this humanity, my own miniature humanity growing in molds of cities built to cease, the if gathered together and looked at intently could be the end of me.
and when I sit, and I clear it out, my garden is beauty that is vast and rare and colonizing my garden puffs its flowers to the bosoms of others and its sent is sent flying into the abyss.
but as it is
as it always is
my garden can not
and
does not
live outside of me
and so it stays in the cage of my ribs
to rot as all else.