A flower creased the dirt on my fingers
Alighting them of their sullied fate
Each petal a mate to a nail, each nail
Assailing the endless mass of trash around
This planet upon which we lay -
It may be that like a philanderer I lay
From left to right upon these soils
a new flower for each grave
wherein lie fragments of hearts
whose union defined the existence of my kind.
Every cloth has been used, and so using
One to clean this mess is no more than
Rubbing disease and malaise onto more
And I ask of my state how it is that in this
State we’ve become unable, incapable of helping
And most direly, how it is we are so indifferent?
How it is that I am no different.