The Flowers’ Bloom.


Where there were two there now stands one.
Alone, silent the one stands to one side.
He stood and watched the throng pass by.
‘It’s a race,’ He thought. ‘Though to what end?’
Another one stepped slowly back into the crowd
To be pushed away - lost into the unseen future.

The one stood alone - watched the  race.
‘A race, yes. They go this way, they go that.
Pushed and shoved, stumbling blindly in circles.’
Some fell to the merciless feet of others -
Trampled into the void - trodden into the forgotten past.
The one sat peacefully on the ground - the multitudes pressing on.

Finally he lay down on the unmarked ground -
Soil and grass still where ‘they’ had not stood.
The ground was a mat of life, simple - uncaring.
‘The grasses and frowers - they do  bustle through life.
They live simply, uncaring. They have no future, no past.
They live a season, then die an unmoved death.

‘The crowds move on towards the future together,
writing a history as they speed towards their doom.
‘If there was one not a part of their existance, 
That one must have no future, therefore no past.
To them, that one would not - never had - existed.
He is not dead. He cannot be dead if he never lived.’

He sits alone, the multitudes of self histories
Written before  his eyes. Then he understood:
‘One who has no past cannot be p art of the past.
One who knows the past of the others cannot
share their future for he has no past.’
He lay contentedly, watching thier slow demise.

He shut his eyes and thought no more.
He listened no more to the endless noise of man.
He felt no longer the gentle buds supporting him.
Yet he smiled - a knowing smile - He knew his future.
He knew his season had finished: He had come to ful bloom.
He sighed a last breath and passed unknown into the void.