Sunflowers

It comes to me that every street or patch of crowded humanity has become a battle zone. The fight is muddled the cause unclear. The sky rains tears of spite and rage and it comforts us not. Did the sunflowers stop turning to the light, did the earth beneath our feet turn rancid, or did we bury our eyes in a mudslide of hate? Have we become what we feared the most, our irrevocable and forever reviled enemy? The fields of sunflowers, are still gold faced in the sunlight, but the land is slowly pickling them, we will have to keep a few in a jar, that they may eventually remind us of a former undiagnosed sanity, a world of hope, before it went to war with itself.