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A blade of grass
as part of it’s ordered world
will grow
for a while at least
in the never-ending field

Growing slowly, flowering occasionally
Always striving
to reach that oracle in the sky
that he has long mused on
in his simple way

Until one day,
a force outside his control
will come along and cut him down
in the prime of his life
and so it must always be
in his ordered world.

In so doing, the cruel masters
will ensure he never reaches
his fullest height
his crowning glory
in that manicured garden
he unwittingly calls home

For are we all not in some way
like this simple blade of grass?
We live, we die, cut off, denied
from achieving our fullest potential
in this manicured, ordered, measured
existence we call

Life.

 

© Reg Davey 2011-2012

 

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