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Two little blackbirds
part ways forever
and nobody bothers why,

the sun sheds a tear
just before she sets
and philosophers do not
even care,

those keyboard sages
from the east and west,
where snow falls
and summer is a thing,
they won't ask why.

It's only I who seems
to care,
to worry why
the earthworm dies
without a marked grave.

It's only I who seems
to bother,
why the rain chose
not to fall today,
and the stars refused
to twinkle for the children;

No body asks why
the grave was cold
and why the flowers died
in my hands.

They just assumed,
I know they did;
they always do,
But I burdened myself
with the whys
and got a silent wind
for an answer.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Editing stage: 


I was intrigued by this poem. It seems it is the little things that matter the most. I don't know if this was your point but that is what I got out of it

Let your mercy spill on all these burning hearts in hell(Leonard Cohen)

The point was actually those who care about the little things get hurt the most. But what you took away from it is most beneficial, we all should share the burden of caring about all those little things.

No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job. - TS Eliot

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