You’d think us all farmers who toil
At this vast fertile soil
Tapping each network of roots
For the system that bears the best fruits

Though this is how we communicate
There are better ways to tend
Than seeing trees as disposable saplings
From which to ****** a date

With this smorgasbord of choice, I find
We all suffer a tell tale fate
Of being plucked from the stem
Half-heartedly nibbled upon the rind

Then silently thrown upon the rest
A wave unable to crest
Why not show some purpose on the ranch
Consider the date that was once on the branch

Instead we hear the same sad song
About the forgotten fruit of the palm
Condemned without a word
Left to their thoughts inferred

So maybe farmer’s the wrong term
They care for each flower, seedling, and worm
Creating darkness and dead air
Only leaves one famished and impaired

That said, I never hold delusions of hope
Thinking thumbs are stiff or broke
I’d rather pour myself a glass and toast
To all of the liches, nymphs, and ghosts