I exist, making no movements through the leaves of trees,
Leaving barely a trail marking my path,
Cautiously stepping over the branches and flowers that
Dot the places I call home.
I exist, letting the air tumble from my lungs like soft clouds,
Letting the world expel me from its presence as it sees fit.
There is nothing left for me here;
There is nothing I could do to make my marks more signature or apparent.
The earth will choose who it may,
I am in the masses.