Aug 212011
 
The history of a seed, blind tear
Crying an eye in the dirt,

Unfolds a flower's talking stalk
Without meaning among murky hills.

Why this incessant spur to grow,
To know, to dominate with words

A landscape we cannot escape?
To vomit, void our inscape

Until all the dome of stars are seeds
Of me, me, me, me, me?

Blind need and blind tears, and less
Fit purpose than this mustard seed

That blindly grows its heats and dies
Without complaint

In a dirt that does not wait.

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