Daisies Glare Back At The Observer

The bouquet drifts in a void beyond coordinates, a clandestine symposium of petals negotiating the limits of perception. Each stem bends like an anxious question mark, courting gravity yet refusing its verdict; each haloed nucleus pulses with the clandestine certainty that reality is merely a persuasive rumor. Daisies glare back at the observer, ocular blossoms whose pale lashes sift through the sediment of consciousness, exposing the faint bruise where memory collides with event. Lucid spores of color rupture the dark, whispering that illumination is not the opposite of obscurity but its most intimate accomplice. All around, the air is stitched with inaudible arithmetic, as though the cosmos were busy tallying absences: loves unuttered, lives unlived, mirrors unshattered. In this suspended hush, matter itself rehearses its own disappearance, and what we name “flower” is only the melancholic residue of an idea that already regrets having taken form.