the corporation that torn wounds of grime through the hillside.

it’s scars deeper than any canyon,

burrows under the fire of the gentle pink sky.

carelessly plowing roots into the greenery grown by our exhausted hands.

drifting dirt onto the land,

matted by the warmth of each other’s breath. 

bleeding ink draws on the crimson flowers,

flourished by the soles of our feet.

a shredded affirmation staining the bluebird that once brought us spring.

Their empty teacups they spit out of to melt.

a slow wither of lurid brown liquid for us to clean. 

scraping the berry pickings and sunflowers as it lies engrained in the crevices of their teeth.

The poisoned lilies they planted below our feet.

our savored fate left as a vineyard of browning fields to bellow in the polluted sea.

hummingbirds torn as a feast. 

their wings looking for sky,

gaping a riverbank to willow down a stream.

grooving blindly under the beat,

the drum ahead pounds in the streets 

a march blooming in the rosebuds of summer

peeling back the texture of thin pasty leather

attaching symbols of beliefs 

The corporation, strangers lasso to dissolve into a being unseen.

rooting in a hillside without scrapings of embedded decay