Wheat in a Cornfield
I stand out in the cornfield, alone among strangers
Useless to the farmer who waters and feeds me
The plot of land I sit in, is shaded by the accomplishments of those around me
Proud is the farmer
Of those gracious stalks of golden cobs
Ashamed is the farmer
Of the useless twig of wheat I have grown into
The sky is out of reach for my tiny limbs
As close as a cornplant away
Yet seperated by the difference between us plants
I look up to the corn
Because they are the only things to look up to
They look down on me with a diliberate dominance
As though each kernel underneath their beautiful husks deserves better than to grow next to me
When the air turns chill
The farmer assesses his prized crop
He picks and sows until there is nothing to be picked and sowed
Except for me,
This once infamous, lone, straw
Is now the last survivor of his supposed corn idols
Able to embrace the sky without obstacles
And feel the breeze of the dream filled air that gave strength to my heroes