there are those…

… i suppose
who think nothing of a rose

they do not wonder
looking under
to find grass between their toes

to such as these
the spreading trees
are whispering in vain

they regard the sprinkling rain
with nothing but posterior pain

the sparkling skies
lift not such eyes
the daily sunrise lacks surprise!

i suspect
with regret
that most all the folks i’ve met

have already died
inside
but from mortal planes were never sent

to whom the world is still cement
and unresponsive stone

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