The Maker’s Mark

Singed and tattered
Void of life
Just brown husks
of what used to be.

Do I let them stand there
Like marked gravestones?
Do I pull them out
Roots so deep?

I gave them time to bounce back.
Now spring has sprung
And the tattered and torn are not
Returning back to glory.

The maker’s mark on what has been
But is never more.

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