Blade

Each one bending in an oh-so-slight breeze,
the pure essence of "no control,"
more numerous than any water drop in a lake
for a lake can be drained.
These blades will never die.
They creep over everything
and leave nothing untouched.
Yet even in mass numbers,
numbers that envelop and destroy
any environment they want to control,
each one is unique.
None stand the same height
or emit the same tone.
Each moves in a way
no others can mimic.
But each blade is acknowledged
by no one.
Each blade will be remembered
by no one.
For as soon as the unlucky ones fade away,
a fresher, younger, stronger blade shoots up,
and the carcass is forgotten.