Scorn Fields
Why are your hands empty?
After so much reaping,
you should be full with harvest
Even though the grass is dry
and the feline mouths thorny,
you wait for the replenishment
Wondering how the world
got like this, just like this,
so plain and cruel
They say it’s all about perception
They say many things
and you listen, out of habit
Your hands are tired
but you hold on to the hope
that the wait will be worth it
Believing that a canyon
full of ferns might turn
into a flatland of crops
You remain, incredulous
and they don’t care
And they never will
So release your air cups
your plates of sand
and crumbling journals
Take to the hills, the lake,
as your exhales dispel
the iniquity of their scorn
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