1
More beautiful dying alive,
(As it fades, generating seeds),
Than in its full yellow flower,
The dandelions in my yard thrive,
Though people denounce them as weeds.
White tuft atop a thin tower,
A brain tottering on a spine,
Its thoughts fly in windblown showers,
Infinitesimally fine,
Like disintegration of hours.
2
Some moths carry a second head
On their backs — fooling — they’re not dead.
Oh, how we love inspired dread,
When our own lives are extended.
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