Theory of plasticity

Plastic plants make me sad
I wonder why
I sit and I ponder
I wonder because what else is there to do

The reason, I think, is constancy
It's life is bare, devoid of change
Maybe.
Or maybe it is choice that it lacks.

Maybe it is because it cannot
soak in the sun, or shiver
in the cold dewy winter mornings
Or wither and die

Something about its choicelessness
tingles my melancholic bone. Maybe.
But then, rain makes me happy and
has it any choice about its falling.

Have I written this one before?

I seem to be in a lot of déjà vu moments
Think there may be something wrong with the Matrix.

Godard-speak

When we talked,
...........................I talked about me,
.........................................................you talked about you,
..............................................................................................when
we should have talked about
...........................................each other.