Saturday, September 08, 2007


This was written as a conclusion (possibly) to the first poem, Dandelions. Have I posted that? Damn. Perhaps I should post that as well. Heck, let's post the whole story. Erm, I'll post in reverse chronological order... Cynicism is in high gear today, it seems.
By Robert Park
May 15, 2004, 11:50 PM
Parched with the desert sun
No rain for days
You wonder how anything could grow
In this place
Where is the green grass
Or the flowers of beauty past
Did flora truly grow
In this wasteland
As I seek for water
Thirsting for a drop
To quench this torture
My eyes glaze over
And there is a vision
Of the garden past
In which I grew flowers
Tulips that would last
But above all else
There was a single pretty red rose
That choked and could not grow
And died pitifully
Because of the stupid dandelions
That I eventually wiped out
With every herbicide known to man
My garden has cracks
In the dry, hard, brown dirt
A depressing sight in its starkness
Clouds of dust are created by wind
Void of all beauty
And when the air clears
I see a single solitary dandelion
And I wonder why
Those things never seem to die.

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