The Field

Fascinating in technicality
Are the nuances of the human mind.
A field of strange flowers inviting
The observer to delve into its' fragile psyche.

The hungry audience retires for
The night, riveted by the days find.
Their sleep restful and undisturbed,
The field will wait for the morrows next pry.

The flowers roots run deep, 
In search of another of its kind.
Not noticing the deadened leaves
Left in its path, as it hides from the airless sky.

The field sprouts its foliage,
Another being of comfort for which to bind.
The field so lonely, 
Sheds a tear as its' flowers die.

Unable or unwilling to let
The spectators irrigate the dying mind.
The field resolves itself 
To forever remain lonely and dry.