surrounding forlorn sun-cursed flora
pulled by the teary eyed sky;
stars tantalizing them from on high
with promises of a heavenly aura.
never satisfied with their strata,
always pushing against their time
until the death-bell for them chimes
and they wither to kernels of data.
encouraging drops sent to their aid
from their lake and river neighbors;
within the dirt, they do their labor
and at their end, to the dirt they fade.
we are but flowers in a grassy field,
reaching for the suns radiant hand, and
like the flowers strewn in "our" lonely land
to the omnipotent dirt we shall always yield.