By S. F. Brooke
Standing in this everlasting field of consciousness,
My memories clenched tight in one hand,
My future in the other.
The sea of dandelions surrounding me sway
They sense the secrets that slip out of my grasp.
We whisper our secrets to the dying flowers
Seeds exploding into words, scattered and carried by the wind
Never to become whole.
The flowers whisper their secret song to the wind
Asking it to comply
Begging the wind to let it live on.
The dandelions are dying
And so, in turn,