Plastic plates, plastic cups.
Plastic flowers.
And a metal iron to heat it all up.
The trees outside sacrificed for a florescent forest.
It couldn't feel more like a dream.
With their ivory towers and perfect petals marching like a ceremony.
A head on your chest trying to relax,
But the streets sing too loudly at 11pm and inside the sound is tainted.
A heartbeat so significant, you can't fake it.
Like sorrow, like joy.
Like love?
Then why does it all feel like cement
