Dried and crispy coats the lawn
Bright or dull it matters none.
Crying out their silent protest
Against this quick and second death.

And yet their friends keep coming
Dropping in, joining the parade,
“Wait don’t start without us”
Not knowing they’ve been betrayed.

Hiding in weeds or fleeing with the wind
They resist their fate in quiet desperation,
But the mower knows no empathy.
Inevitably they face their final destiny.