Grass

Lines fold from lack of structure, tall survivors of green aromatic grass between grooved lines of swirling destruction taunt me with resilence. I aim again, second round, to destroy your progressive height and to erase my amateurish driving. Inbetween doomed patterns, I drive around this old yard thinking of time past. I recall early life, innocent days and nutured living. I remind myself, amidst the spreading razor-scythe swath of demise I leave behind my lawnmower...I remind myself of how I grew up in this yard like the hardy weeds that slip by my destructive path. Times flash backwards, show how my best friend edged out alive too, which is so rare from our ghostly generation. These thoughts tremor along vibrations and screams of shattered sticks and the suffocated bogged-down dead grass bodies clogging the swirling machination of finality. Weeds survive; the common, generalize grassy lawn is shorn and unremembered and dismissed as unnecesary.