remember what it was like

in the light? resting comfortably

in a field of greens,

touched by the angels' breath

each time the sun came up?

but then we got picked, because

somebody couldn't let us rest in peace


sure is cold 'n' dark in here;

nothin' to do but

sit. . .

wait. . .

be ignored. . .

grow old...er

sucking up left over ambitions. 

  

so we compost

in the dark. . .

forgotten. . .

good intentions breeched,

wonderin' what might

have become of us. .  .



our vibrant hues turn'd

gray and blotchy,

like an old piece of

organic fruit that

might have done a favor

to a pale old body,

neglected in the heap
  
 

© 2005 cynth’ya lewis reed. All rights reserv'd