The dead brown grass is beneath the bodies that are sitting atop it.
When touched it prickles the skin.
Trying to grip our hands and hold us there forever.
It wants us to stay.
For nobody ever thinks that the grass gets lonely.
Sure a lot of things go to the grass,
But do they actually keep it company?
It takes every suffering moment in silence.
Surely we hurt it,
More then we can possibly know.

The fresh mountain air lazily rolls through the garden,
Casting an Eden like spell.
The wispy clouds are barely visible.

The roar of the tractor hypnotizes those who listen.
It does everything in a wild frenzy.
It begins to beep as it strolls tiredly away.
It fills the minds of the men who try to avoid being hit.

You can hear a single bird chirping its heart out,
Like a lone wolf howls to the moon.

The sound of pencils pressing paper fills the air.
The rustling of people turning pages is common.

The flowerbeds are overflowing with weeds,
Like a waterfall overflows with fish.
The red tulips gleam a deep blood red.
They pulse in the sunlight.
They struggle to grow through the weeds,
Yet the weeds hold on to them with their vice like grip.
Trying to dominate the flowerbeds and call it their kingdom.

The black statues are frozen…
Stuck in time.
They will remain untouched and unseen as time goes on.
Their legacy will be forgotten.

A car passes leaving the listeners’ ears ringing,
With its electric buzz.
A man hammers almost idly in the cool morning breeze.