The Fields

There was a time when
The crops grew
In full fields of green;
Sometimes, they would burst
Up in rich abundance.
Even in years of need,
There would be enough
To get by.
But each word, each gesture
Of disdain, indifference, or
Spread and mixed salt
Through the once fertile fields
Until no clean soil remained.
Until the seeds shriveled and
Never sprouted.
The crops are a whisper of
Memory in a barren field,
And I cannot bring myself
To care.


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