A Community of Strangers

I can't complain,
although I do;
monad that I am,
I do not mix readily
with others of my ilk,
unlike, say,
your common dipsy daisy.
I yearn for fresher flowers
in my friendship meadow;
yet asters that at first
appear so comely,
in masses overwhelm me,
and crowd me out like weeds.
I'm like a weed myself:
a thorny alien, unwelcome
thistle among the buttercups.
I'm thrown into such midsts
again and again,
and no one sticks to me willingly;
I cause them pain, they sigh,
and turn away.
Well, now I go to seed,
and soon the finches will pick me apart,
and carry me over the fields
to a thousand final resting places.

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A Community of Strangers