there are flowers
in the mind of the dreamer
transforming into gold
or the perceptual equivalent
neurons fire like a cannon
those flowers are special
they blossom in the winter
twisting reality inside out
weathered parchment
containing secrets and lies
people always lie
as if it’s in our nature
lights flaring luminously
there are flowers 
painted on the wall
perceptually normal
when colours are the new normal
functionally challenged
sinking into oblivion
these are not the halcyon days
the halcyon days were beautiful
I pine away waiting for
the halcyon days to return