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Corn
I sit
And I wait.
Watching the crows fly by
It hits,
I'm fate.
I'm what they all fear.
I'm dormant.
I can't move, I'm only tossed by the wind.
Awaiting to ascend,
I relent.
I am fate, as before I was seed,
Now I am evolved and new.
At the end of this stalk,
Where I grow and die
I come to realize
While the crow flies
With it's dreary eyes
That I am what every other human fears.
I am immobility.
I am dormant.
I am thoughtless.
I am dying.
From this stalk, I stare
Through the warm, crisp air
At the edge of nowhere
And the emptiness beyond.
It is futile
To dream
With a lifeless being.
And that is what nobody has seen.
The void,
The pit,
The dark hole where a fire was lit.
That fire didn't move.
It just slowly decayed,
Over days, it decayed, and it slowly whisked away.
As do I.
On this stalk, I do not walk.
I do not talk.
I sulk.
But I see.
I see how blind they were.
To look past the only conceivable trait of what it means to be human.
To live.
Don't sit.
Don't dread.
Don't sulk.
You have no stalk,
No means of which to stop you from your walk.
As the crow descends,
I reach the end.
Death's hand ascends
To collect me in a basket.
His straw hat so deceivingly innocent.
As though he were a farmer.
As though I were corn,
