The Cycle

Pile the flowers high enough, add water,
And they will rot; sweetness to pungent
Sweet, the ground adorned with soldiers.
This is what dirt is; meters to miles of
History, some living and some dead turned
Over and over by the next, ad eternum.
Though every cycle brings it's losses,
Leakage, as some small part escapes
And drifts ever further away until far
From are we all,
Serving a dying cycle.
It won't last.

Written by Mr Woods on 20/06/18
© 2018 Anthony Woods

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