Clouds choke out the Sun,
suffocating Ancient, Dark Earth with snow hands.
Vultures fall, collide with barren stumps,
Their innards speak of a forgotten March Fifteenth.
Famine strikes the fortunes of all but rich sirens,
whispering empty promises through razor-sharp teeth;
chewed words luring men down from their humble sails.
But these predators are not evolved,
they simply know when the snow storms next
having been dealt the hand with pyramid knowledge.
Candle-wax envy cracks against the Ground,
the basis of the World;
Its Bones hold everything together.
The clouds do not care.
Biting and snapping their dirty maw,
they demand the Fertile Soil
to sacrifice the fruits of its labor.
The clouds promise they will share.
but they have plundered sweet Tomatoes and juicy Pears.
Gorging out rainbow full Potatoes,
ripping through generational roots.
Leaving nothing behind except for
the faint, sour scent of sulfur and wet metal.
They offer up the weak to the weaker
and watch the shrinkage;
small to smaller, the rot to rotted.
The Pears they throw down from bonemarrow thrones are putrid, soft.
And so week by week, the ice remains.
When the Earth declares that these Fruits were no longer for the snow,
But for the Worms, Deer, Plants, Sun, and Rain,
The clouds scream injustice, greed frothing at their mouths as they declare us savage, thieves.
Carpenter hands try
to cover our heads.
New wounds blending
into old metal scars
as the clouds pelt
a barrage of concrete
pillars
high and high and high
into the sky;
hoping that the
connection between
heaven and earth
is one made of violence.
