I miss the softness of the sun
The leaves that change the color dun
The grass's emerald rising stalks
Cool evening's dew on quiet walks
The crushed scent of polished green
No smell is ever released it seems
Without being broken or crushed
So why have I pursued and rushed?
To preserve myself
As if a flower ever bloomed without opening
As if a warrior ever fought without wounds
As if a book was ever read without stains
As if a cloud ever rained without tears
To preserve myself in constant living effigy
Means I leave no scent upon the world
This is the true definition of waste
To never love, the scent and flavor disappear
Like a swirling of dun coloured leaves
In the wind

10/19/2005

Author's Note: For the smell of those who are dying in perfect living effigy.

Posted on 10/19/2005
Copyright © 2024 Oliver Drewman