Seed

It is only when my lead flakes
explode, like shards of dandelion
in your muscle to wrench
a gargle from your soul of baby's cry
that I, like you, are born to die,
and in my parachute of flower
we will flail to cobbles' clatter
and cast our seed to spatter here
on Manchester's rock,
and fed by every eye and weed of soul
in this meadow of rancour,
we will bleed black,
and from our tainted ink feed,
to grow back.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.