She sits in stoop, low over the sodden earth
Pressing herself  to leave an impression in the muck
some sort of public confession,

That she actually exists.
Swallowing whole all things dead and dying, but
Her own unsubstantiated concept of
Living, defying her purpose
In insipid contradictions

To her needless desperation to grow.
To prove her own mass substantial
Absorbing into herself all things that seem too real,
That threaten her absoluteness
That threaten to have existed before her