[thisislife]

And perhaps if we were dandelions we would know cruelty;
The wanton children popping heads
And laughing at the scattered seeds floating down to concrete,
That sit unfulfilled
And float like the smallest caskets of the sky.
The wind has borne death on its tongue
In the saplings not grown, but rather lost
Somewhere in the gray-plated glory of dominion.
And perhaps if we were clouds we would know peace;
The absolute surrender to the caprice of the breeze,
That billowing breath of all directions.
We would spend our afternoons treading softly in the blue
And saying to each other
“How lucky we are to be unpinned
In the unfathomable places that Man cannot hold.”