Artificial flowers don't die.
They never crave water.
They never reach for the sun.
They do not wilt in heat.
They do not bow in wind.
Their scent is synthetic.
They are not alive.
Only imitating life.
Never changing. Never changed.
They have a place.
They can brighten a waiting room.
Survive neglect.
Sit on a grave for a season or two.
Stay put.
Unfazed by their environment.
The best arrangements look real.
Some things can seem alive without ever having lived.
Made by man.
Not part of mankind.
Silicon and circuitry will answer your questions.
Instant responses.
Some can sound warm, thoughtful, even wise.
But fluency is not feeling.
Convenience is not presence.
And responsiveness is not love.
Zeros and ones can solve equations.
Tell you why the sky is blue.
Flood you with detailed data.
Even write you a poem.
Tread carefully.
Accuracy and truth are not the same thing.
There is a chasm between knowing the answer
and understanding what it means.
Recitation of facts can be programmed.
Carrying the human weight of those facts cannot.
Those zeros and ones can analyze REM sleep.
Not wake terrified from a nightmare.
They can predict the weather.
Not kneel in the dirt and pray for rain.
They can explain the mechanics of a human heart.
Not the reasons it's broken — or full of joy.
It is not their fault.
They never sat in silence and missed someone.
Never felt the pit in their stomach before bad news arrived.
Never stormed a beach while bullets tore the air apart.
Never felt the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat.
Nothing artificial ever cried at a wedding.
Laughed at a funeral.
Suffered the loss of a family dog.
Come home tired and still do what had to be done.
Tasted the best burger ever at a roadside dive joint.
Heard an old song and become younger for three minutes.
Nothing artificial has ever been undone by a baby's smile.
Argued with the voices in their head.
Smelled fresh-cut grass in summer.
Embraced the scent of woodsmoke in the fall.
Danced the shimmy shake in the kitchen.
Experienced a moment of spiritual enlightenment.
Nothing artificial has ever loved something it could lose.
There is a difference between knowing —
and feeling what you know.
That's the burden.
And the gift.