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Rated: E · Poetry · Environment · #2212647
Wating at the traffic intersection at night after a rainy day.

I waited unmoving, my head hung low, tired,
as red petals sprung from the pavement.
Neon flowers of the night repeatedly trampled,
squished, and deformed, of little significance
to any person or thing, yet carrying so much for me
in the musk air of midnight. They danced
and bloomed, then disappeared.
They would spring up
again and again in the span of seconds.
They would collapse just as much.
I would stand there, breathing heavily,
trying to pry the little freshness
the air could provide me
amongst the heat and humidity.
Eagerly awaiting the death of the flowers
and the coming of the fresh
green leaves of spring,
so I, too, could join
in their decay and rebirth.

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