If you can dance in wild, weird ways,
then you are truly free.
If you can’t, while you’re home alone,
you’re a bodily detainee.
A prisoner of life, itself —
a man who never was —
a tragic figure cut from plans
who will do, but never does.
I saw a field — once sunflowers —
now reaped at harvest time.
Just stiffened stalks and wrinkled leaves,
and one head past its prime.
Those glorious yellow petals,
drooping — facing the ground,
were the only way I knew the
crop that’d been mowed down.
How sad to be a survivor
who lives by a bowed head
once the ones that faced the sun
have joined the newly dead.
