These days are like wild
Floating over hills.
Touching the ground,
Planting themselves at the bottom,
And release their spores.
Drifting inside the wind,
They burn with fatigue,
Always moving forward,
Hoping to reach the top of the hill...
So that they can see,
Just for a little while.
But they will not stay there
Because they don't want to.
Their roots must grow...
There will always be more;
They must have more.
To settle would be...
These seeds drift downhill,
As fast as they can.
A sense of comfort,
A far easier pace to take,
Than going up hill,
Before they know it...
They find themselves,
Back where they began...
At the bottom.
With hopes too wide ,
Too deep to plant.
So they waste away,
And die out...
Until they have shriveled away.
Unwillingly they plant themselves,
At the bottom...
These days will never end,
Bringing with them very,
Simplistic ideas of what is wrong and right...
But not showing us which is right.
Seeds always seem so nice, so sweet...
Everyone can follow the idea of seeds.
Thinking of forest fires and things,
Seeds become the avenue for healing,
But when something happens,
Something that can't be re-grown,
What do you do?
How do you bring back the thing you lost?
Thats the irony of plant/human life.
One is full of love and friendship,
The other pain and distortion of everything,
That we are taught.
Coming home to reality,
Not wanting to face the evil humanity...
For these are the days of our lives,
Never wanting them to end the way,
That they did for you.
With all hope and anguish directed at you,
I hope you realize,
We can't bring you back,
Your friends can't grow a clone of you.
With everything that has happened,
It almost makes me appreciate plant life...
More so than before.
For I know,
No matter what happens,
It can't be selfish and destroy itself.
It won't leave us...or me.
I will never understand.