A tingly feeling as the rough grass brushes against my arm, and my fingers seem to easily run between
the greenery sprouting from earth.
What is Earth?
She’s a birth, a big ball waiting to be molded, not shy to move her breeze,
but shy enough to tumble all these seas.
Moves along with me as I dance beneath her beam.
Torn root by root, never truly seen.
The root from which a cat can hug a tree, but man will destroy them both.
Her growth will not dismay, as she burns under their oath.
Pushed by the depths of the city's weight, it crushes her slow, slow into an abyss where we have yet to go.
Her fate lies upon us, and I lie on this land,
my back on the grass,
now my hands are in the sand.
Earth pampers her comfort when I feel dry and cold, while I hold only her dearest gifts, crumbling as we
grow old.
Her love won't decay, but her grass loses green just right beside the bay only never to be seen.
