i find myself
mentally preparing
for the long cold winter
that never comes
seeking to store
fat reserves
when summer’s starvation
is still grumbling
from empty cupboards
the rows of jars
still waiting for
a harvest that will
never come to fruition
no matter how dilligent
i sow the seeds

death rides a pale horse
while famine dangles
a carrot in front of
an emaciated donkey
all while war and pestilence
are too busy to answer
the call to armageddon
due to simple human avarice

walking the dusty rows
of ungerminated dreamtallow
callused hands grip tight
to the splintered shaft
of my rusted scythe
as i tirelessly tend
this desolation of
spikey weeds among the
salted soil of my own
expired aspirations
looking for a hint of
verdant tomorrows in a
sea of pesticidal wonder
an amateur farmer pulling
the yoke to till salted soil
in a state of perpetual longing