men, they spend hours, days, weeks
seeking, searching, running
to the Promised Land.
their bones, cracking from strain
their bodies, weakening
as their humours run dry.
all in the hope of finding roses,
delicate in petal, soft to the touch
this is where they will lay their heads.
but what if Mother Nature were to rear
her wiry head?
leaving weeds, un-ripped from their homes.
i suppose the weaker men would get lost,
unaccustomed to rich thorn,
glorious thickets, never ending forests
our great Mother, she laughs
as they trip and fall,
tears falling, rendering our grass fertile
they’ve made their bed now, she supposes
now they must lie in it.