Young Writers Society

I slept on dead earth all summer.

Dirt soiled my pressed suit, and I was made anew, I'm sure.

Sun baked my naked skin, and I knew the day was different,

Rain rained and soaked me through, and I blessed the sky.

Through now my eyes are gone,

And the tongue that tasted,

And the skin that felt both rough and smooth.

And my sightless brain,

That thought with the limits of thought,

And knew only the limits of it's knowledge,

Made claims of all the world,

And at times wished to die.

***

A wildflower sprouts,

It grows from the shacks of my skin,

And thinks its first thoughts.

It knows neither rain, nor sky, nor sun, nor death,

And reaches for nothing,

But says:

Life is a gift.

Who among us wins this gift?

We are but flowers in a field of flowers,

In the late autumn chill.

As each day grows colder than the last,

Our petals fall together.