Dew

Generations come and go, but
we remain. We remain silent,
the ones behind, the ones with
the philosophy of wayward souls:
but words like this mean nothing,
they care not for weary tirades
or serendipity and souless skies.

It is like a dark blade of grass
under a new morning, the sun
shedding her light over the
phosphoresence, the glisten of
the dayfire shuddering across
the tip of green.

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