Overrun
I’ve fallen for
the wild violets
and purple deadnettle,
find it strangely beautiful
how they struggle for dominance-
life traded for life to bloom.
I keep a few
preserved behind glass-
a small monument
to self-preservation.
Often I dream
of the end, wonder
if the weeds will weave
their way between my ribs,
press me between their pages
and proliferate.
10 thoughts on "Overrun"
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This poem speaks to me… especially the last stanza. Thank you for sharing it.
I’ve been in fields of wild violets and deadnettle and feel your poem.
Love those last few lines!
I love this poem. What a great little meditation.
Oh goodness! Those last lines are magic! Well done.
Really enjoyed this. Thanks.
Beautiful concise work!
Love how the tables are turned in the end.
in my mind I change wonder to hoping. Such a nice way to dispose of one’s ashes. Love the poem and the thought both yours and mine.
I feel the same way. My ideal (ridiculous as it may be,) Would to be buried on a distant island, full of weeds and wildflowers that were not allowed to be eradicated. I’ve always had a soft spot for them and hate to see them be killed, even if it’s for the good of other plants. An island just for them.