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Patches of Dandelion

Cuts through the fragrant air; patches of dandelion.
Soil on my palms as the cold stirs beyond the horizon.
Tacet choir through the state within.
Everlasting median of good and sin.

Bird sings in quiet; a solemn stillness.
Grace whispered on blindness.
Echoing on an even silence.
Pierces the heart as sharp as a lance.

Aftermath unveiled; as I dug my own grave,
I asked myself, "what will I have?"
Hoping for an acknowledgment.
Nothing but a clichéd embellishment.