Funny, how the lips are the most perfect rose petal red when they are parched and dry
How stomachs swell like the most ideal satisfaction when they are starved and empty
How violets on our windowsills are the most beautiful when they are dying
How laughter is loudest and most free when the situation is the furthest from being funny,
How we hide from our dreams and our hungers, behind the most convincing outward manifestations of content
Only to find that wishful thinking, wishful thinking at its finest, is within us
Is among us, is our thirsting lips and starving stomachs and dying flowers and hopeful laughter
Funny, how, with tragically evasive phrasing, we would like to believe that any of this is even remotely "funny"