Dandelion spores letting go under soft blowing,
Countless it seems in their oft going, floating,
Above the meadow green, and green from grasses
Countless it seems in the knowing, a scythe passes,
Over their slender bodies, and softly lay them to sides,
Countless it seems the faces untouched by dying do hide.
Or slink away slowly or upon their vast piles do heap – more.
Countless it seems those young ones who count life cheap,
And those who count it highly are left to wonder why,
Countless it seems the times no one looks beyond a falling sky,
To ask questions of those who die, those who leapt so fast,
Countless it seems the others who simply crept on past,
The mounds of rotting flesh, now putrid in the choking sun,
Countless it seems the machines that fill the smoking guns.
Countless it seems the count at all, among life’s ugly scrawl,
And here I lie in lover’s lap as countless ants upon the blanket crawl.