Plastic flowers

There's a pot on our kitchen window sill. It contains flowers. Made of plastic.

They were there a few months ago, left behind by the house's previous owner.

I hate them. They don't change. Every day since we moved in, they've been the same vivid colour, the same perfect texture.

Anti-tethical to the thing they are a weak fascimile of, they stand there, lacking the dynamic and short-lived beauty of their natural counterparts.

Why does anyone in their right mind put plastic flowers in their house? Or, for that matter, wood-patterned plastic slates on their floors and fake plastic grass in their gardens.

To remind us of a world outside that is being destroyed, slowly but relentlessly, by the exploitative system that produces these cheap plastic trinkets?

They are an affront. An affront to everything alive.

And yet, here they are. Every day again and again. Those damn plastic flowers.