A pretty painting, a bunch of flowers.
Most are beautiful, doing well
Some at the top even shed their petals
Fertile and bearing seed.
But look down, see those who wilt
Pressed to the edge of society
Heads hang down, outcast
Soon to drop and die.
Their vase, the world
Is a vain arena of struggle
For all those within
Whether thriving or failing
Are without roots
All are doomed to die.
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