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
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