The Babel Lot; Or Are They?

They are like a million wild flowers,
breaking out of nothingness-
I never planted the seeds for any;
They are all over my garden.
They look pretty and
give my garden an enthralling,
purple-yellow hue
But the daze of the beauty aside,
I don't know them, any of them;
I don't know what they might do to-
My beloved garden,
to all the ones I did plant, with my own hands;
The ones I watered and looked after and
watched grow.
Are the wild ones worth keeping just for their
supposed beauty?
Will they be good to my own?
Will they get along or
will they just spread across, all over,
murdering the ones I love so deeply,
appealing to the eyes or not, who cares?
They appeal to my being, my soul and my view;
I love them as dearly as the priciest emotion possible.
What if the wild ones don't actually mean any harm?
Will I ever know?
Do I even want to know?
Who knows?