As If

As if I could leave here
with a poem, and pride,
ready to push the daisies
with all my might.

As if I could dig my own bones'
rest, spilling marrow
for the grateful ground.

I can't.

Of course the flowers don't
depend on poems, the ground
doesn't welcome my pride.

I am unimportant to the
sickened sun, noticed not
by the passing glance of
seasons or a single note
of any requiem.

Others leave, I remain.
The daisies grow anyway.



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