You think you are in control of your reality
But whatever you have done
Is remembered differently
By those who saw it
It’s not what you did
It’s what they think you did
You fling handfuls of words
Across space
Dry grass in the wind
Meaning something to a few
Nothing to most
Even you don’t understand them
Everything you do is interpreted
They must have misunderstood
It’s not what you meant
It’s not even what you did
So you turn to the flowers in your pots
The one impossibly red flower
And look closely at it
Trying to remember its details
The texture of the petals
Its structure
To test your desperate hope
That in the morning the red flower is still there and
Things are not always not what they seem
