Greener Grasses

I've set my days to the search of greener grasses

And cleaner pastures in which I hope I'll find

Some semblance of a static life,

Waiting for a sign that it's now my time to rest.

Like the sod-reared flora that ever-grow,

And never know contentment's kiss,

I am fated, as each blade is, to persist,

Despite not having any answers as to why.

In this way, I am theirs and they are mine:

Heirs of the same rot-fear, which goads

A mindless rise toward an endless sky,

Still not yet sedated by the climb.