Passing through fields of gray and black.
Outstretching my hand and letting it pass against the roughness ofÂ
The Stalks.
That roughness that sands and whittles.
The roughness that takes and takes.
Depriving, Stealing, Reveling in what has been snatched away.
Their seeds were planted, a decision made,
An exchange.
Two for Them and a half left for the planter. A spark ignites.
Meager rewards left to reap, more planting.
Four to One, not content.
Sixteen to Two, still filled with the hunger for more.
A ravenous appetite,
Fire now all-consuming, left to roar.
Sowing seeds in a garden, a field growing,
The legacy of that exchange.
The poisonous field remains with planters filled with desire.
They come in droves,
I wonder, will they be content or
Let their fire raze them back into the ground?