Fragmented phrases of thoughts I have recently had, sorted into lines that flow. Poetry.

Us

I lay myself into the wood
Where the grass's warmth dissolves into my skin,
But the trees bury the source.
Birds keep songs tucked into their mouths,
And widows kneed webs under sickly branches.
Theses creatures, do they provide substance?
Are they not merely survivalists,
Living blindly with nothing more than the instincts of their stomachs?
We then lift our hands to break them of their unholiness
For we assume God has made imperfect life.

But are we not thieves of their beloved ground?
It is us who are the useless.
Useless creatures under forgiving skies.

For if the air ceased circulation,
And the sun was shunned by more than the trees,
Would the universe take heed in our disappearance?
Would the stars mourn to compensate for our race?

The flowers wilt because it is their time
And the ants under seeds live for their ignorance,
But we do not carry the weight of a blind head.
Who are we to define purpose?
For we are only incomplete.
Simply incomplete creatures resigned within a universe in negligence