In this sickeningly sweet smell of a fruit, Fruit flies fly high, and dragonflies are misled By neon lights, we sit. Arm in arm, faces stern and silent. We used to be providers, Suppliers of symbiosis. We are now parasites Of each others' joy. Sculptures we are, Of everything that has gone wrong.
Mostly I brush life off my shoulder when it falls gently from a tree, or when it grows from my shirt like lint. Mostly i sigh it away like a laugh from an unfounded joke or a waft of extra air in speech. Except sometimes.