For Whom The Sunshine Disappears

​What do you do
when a poem isn't enough?
When the weed is ash
and the flute is dry
and the sky is despair.

and the leaves have folded into themselves
seeking a way back into the earth,
and the wind sucks dew
from your skin?

and the ground craves water
but you're too bitter
to lend any from your eyes.

you've forgotten how to cry
anyway.
and you're not sure if
it was ever worth it
to give that much of yourself
to a world hell-bent
on consuming itself.

and the tree stands stoic,
mocking the wind,
and it offends you,
the way it stretches
laying claim to all of the sky
with no regard
for whom
the sunshine disappears.