When the soil entraps us with brooks and pyres

your wasted framework usurps the gabble of temples
all that is or was my home, abandoned just as She/He has left
it is quite possibly a matter of time before we will all answer
to the cannibals of cold sands and biting temperatures

the summer will leave no immediacy of relief for dime hustlers
on the primate line too loose to hide their eyes from a brook
over a patch of bluegreen grass that has not only tolerated you
but allowed them to blossom here in the same space as you

where the grass and water stream must of known you would
be eaten in a matter of time, projecting time as your enemy
and not the God the soil worships that has entrapped us
seething entry into the pains of regal symmetry and donned pyres