We, whose hearts flagged as summer vowed
To make our respites pyrrhic and short-lived,
Who sought to lose ourselves in the spirals upon spirals upon spirals
Of each achingly perfect sunflower
Whose swollen head sagged under the weight
Of the season grown too hot and too long
And rest ourselves amongst their scattered seeds that we, too,
Might yet sink into the earth and escape our brittle shells
And return, renewed, to a world perhaps not yet lost.
...
You, who sought to steal us
And press the last drop of liquid brilliance from our serotonin-starved minds,
Who sought to harvest our swollen heads sagging under the weight
Of a world grown too harsh and too vast,
To burn our oils for your own designs
And toss the chaff of us to the wayside as so much particulate matter
To ignite and choke the world so precariously not yet won.