Papery Honor

Paper dies, so do I. Fresh flowers rise from the dead dyeing the paper that read: “It is in the realm of uncertainty where we choose honor without understanding its meaning.” Paper dies, again, and so do I. We become the silent followers of those who know nothing, but ego. Tiny stems rise from the dead, hoping to become the flowers whose petals will dye the papers, so one day it can be read: “Honor exists if it is love.”