The Mower

Mowing the lawn from the point of veiw of a blade of grass.

The horrible hum, the dreadful drone,
the emerald soldiers valiant fall
to the slicing swords that sweep the field.

I watch my fellows lives cut short,
halted in their eternal striving
for the golden disk high above.

I strain in a last defiance of the blades
as the reaper looms high above
and shears my head in a single stroke.

Our heads lie desolate among our brothers
drying to a dead gold in the baking sun
on an endless carpet of our verdant remains.