It's a Metaphor, Hazel Grace

Outside something creeps In the rustling of the grass And the crackling of the bushes The moon licks its thumb And turns the page Of the next book Humans can be so dull, you know? Light spills into the cracks Of the sidewalks the puddles Shrivel up in the undying sun And I am left with Sunburnt trees With their dying leaves The struggle of making sense To a dying people Filled with cement Too thick to cut across with Sharp ideals Being vague is only an option Who else is left to save them