By Robey D. Neeley

It is fall.
The sun sets.
The rays of my existence abandon me.
The breeze caresses my skin.
It soothes even as it attempts to destroy.
Soon I will succumb.
My usefulness to the mother is at an end.
No longer will I spend my days nourishing her.
Once I was vibrant, now I’m dull, pale, and brittle.
Once I was useful, now I’m a burden to be discarded.
I can feel my brothers and sisters surrendering.
One by one they break away.
Does she not feel anything?
Does she not care?
Why does she discard us?
Darkness sets in.
The increasing wind violently batters me about.
I struggle to hold on for just a little longer.
Soon my bond to the mother shears apart.
I begin to fall.
For what seemed like an eternity I plummet.
Finally, I land.
I lay there among my siblings.
The worms ascend to begin their nightly feast.
 We are pulled down to our final fate.
Pleading, weeping, crying.
We scream out our indignation to deaf ears.

				In the middle of nowhere,
				The screams of thousands pierce the evening.
				Un-heard, un-heeded, un-mourned.
				Except by their own mute mothers.

Robey D Neeley was 44 years old when the birth of his first child prompted him to stop doubting himself and finish the 30 plus years of short stories and poetry he had never completed. He is a native Texan who periodically post essays on his blog “Yebor’s Creations” found at     You can find Robey on Twitter @remotes_1

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