You went into it with a mind full of inertia,
and a heart made of stone.
You didn't listen to me to even fathom the idea of changing the way you think now. Did you?
You just wanted to respond.
You just wanted to be heard. That's all you've been doing, that's all you ever fucking do.
Hearing but not listening,
always picking yet never planting. That ill-fertile soil for seeds that only want to be pretty in May. Burn the gardenias, make way for carnations.
To your dismay my ideals are immortal.
As such is this beauty that you mislabel for fleeting.