I have been one,
Wilted and waning,
But not for lack of work.

I have seen those,
Thistle toed and sunset driven,
And I wish them well.

I turn not toward
The sun's daily rise and relax.
I grow in another direction.

The spring roses rise
Directly, but they
Do not inspire me.

The Rhine meanders
Its ageless path past dying and
Teething empires, and it moves me not.

The pyre neatly removes
The flesh from your bones and leaves me
Nothing.  And yet, I am not ignited.

Natural ice, natural ice:
Unfeeling, but not of your own device.

Take a shape, form
A strife,
Ere you belong.

I don't know why
Bluebird sings,
But I can mimic his song.