contamination
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The Black (pt. 3)
In the farthest field there is a deep pit
A wound, proclaimed in the dusty outreaches
Of sweeping grass element
Which now and again bubbles and
Blossoms
The Black (pt. 2)
In seventeen years
All the roots have settled
The roots are strong,
They breathe.
In seventeen years
Our sun has curated
Created
Our plentiful harvests
The Black (pt. 1)
I am not sure what I was expecting
Here;
We have this-
This potential
And those who chip away at it
With their gold encrusted pick axes
