The swaying of grass,

A breezy choir of wind

gently stroking every strand

of hair as a sign of comfort,

To be free like a bird,

Flying across an ocean-like grass field

blanketing the landscape,

A wonderful place to escape,

If only this fantasy would last,

Just like this weary mind,

Many times we are forced

to lie to ourselves

that our lives are just fine,

A marathon of non-stop

self-assurance that

everything will be alright,

Only to have gloomy reminders

of tomorrow’s blight

every single night,

No matter how much I cried,

No sympathy will come

to cure me of my pride,

No one could survive

the wrath of this tide

that could simply

brush everyone aside,

That is the reality

of urban life,

The life of a drone

in a concrete beehive.