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.