The Roots of Sorrow

There upon the window sill
    Grows the lichen of my youth.

Like a rotting car
    Whose rust provides the terra firma
        For her roots,

    The peeling paint
        Of yesterday's fresh coat
    Is suffocated
        And obliterated
            By her loving tentacles.

And with the successful birth
    Of her seed
        I am discarded,
        Of no further use.
            Left to rot.
                Until next spring.