They only ever made art about the beautiful roses. Never about dandelions. So they became the artwork on their own.
Raw and honest, and barely visible. Perfect if only you look within. They became the sun, the moon and the stars. Undestroyable, always blooming. Dancing in the winds wild, twirling around, enjoyable sight to behold.
They became a silent wish. Spiteful to those who wished them to be destroyed, not as weak as anyone expected them to be. Tough little fuckers indeed.
Let them make art about beautiful roses, we will become the art itself. We are the dandelions. Spiteful. Undestroyable.
Invisible to those who do not wish to see honesty. We have our ways to survive wherever. We are rough, tough little fuckers indeed.
