Seedling

Gray squares obstruct my light.

Dead and progressive slabs,

Cover my feet and block my path.

The light bounces furiously,

With no soft place to land.

Where once there were carpets of green,

Now only slate, hard, cold tiles.

Breaking, fighting my way free.

Reaching for Apollo’s face,

Green hands fly up.

One small triumph,

A step toward my Mother;

In a world of metallic giants.

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