Friday, August 17, 2012

Cynodon Dactylon

Welcome to the end.
Many little feet flash up and down,
Stomping over the grass to send
Millions of bacteria to their doom.

Screams erupt. Do I hear the death throes
Of microorganisms cruelly crushed,
Bemoaning their fate? My gaze rose,
And 'twas but the shrill cries of

Overexcited children. Sunlight
Bathed us all, giving the grass the
Energy it could never have at night.
But the grass doesn't look excited

At all. It just sits there, being green
And docile. Resting and soaking in
The sunlight like an old has-been.

Maybe it has secretly resigned itself
To being trampled on. Maybe it was
Unsuccessful in love, left on the shelf,
And so just mopes here aimlessly.

I shudder at the thought.
Poor grass. It gave up so easily.
I would have at least fought
A little, for something of value.

And so enraged by this apathy
I was, I proceeded to tear up
The grass by its' roots maliciously.

"Rise! Do something with you life!"
Not realising I was in fact, extinguishing
It. They could never be revived.

Gasps of horror and looks of befuddlement
Now fell upon me. I sort of stopped
And looked up. Behind this puzzlement
People remembered times past spent doing

Nothing. Did such an outcry lend
Some new perspective? Apparently not.
People scurry off to meetings they must attend.
Welcome to the end.

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