In the tossing and turning of things there’s trouble, trouble with the ability to be covered up by flowers and sweet senses. There are weeds in the meadows suffocating the ground. This trouble comes with sunsets and masquerading flowers because nothing is real at this moment in time. All of this strife and all of these fallacies take you by the hand and bite it ’til you’re crazy with confusion.
Leading the trouble through the veins and through the soul, to the point of scraggly and sticky meadow. The meadow lies on the cliff side and the cliff is fighting the ocean while the meadow fights the weeds. Distraught overtaking of “flowers”, las flores como cobras. Then the cliff is meadow no more.
Barren of grass, but beautifully fertile with weeds the color of pain, the cliff continues its ongoing war with the sea. Whoever said anyone had to win? Anything is nothing when both things want the same space and power over one another. So the weeds take the cliff and they take the water, strangling the fish and the natural vegetation. All that is left is pretty flowers, the cobras of new life.