A Still Nothing

I stand
in a meadow
hunched over
myself, and feeling wary.
Alone.
Carefully, as
not to disturb
a soul,
I raise my drowsy eyes
and peek about.

I see
before me a
sea of weeds
taking over the meadow
in which I stand.
They are darkness.
Discarded seemingly carelessly
within the labyrinth of darkness
are spots of light.
Flowers.

And I mourn for the flowers.
For they will die.
The weeds
will kill them.

You speak to me
then. I shiver
with what is
trepidation and
detest.
All in one breath
weak at the knees
and angry
I fall before you,
and yet nothing.

Shamefully, I
lie, face in the dusty
barren sea of weeds like
the frond of a fern
broken by a thoughtless child.
Your blistered, bleeding
self reaches towards me.
A silent symphony,
thunderous dead.
The idea of a still nothing.

And I mourn for the beauty.
For it, like myself, will die.
You
will kill us.