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Ako Nov 2017
The garderner spread the butter on her bread,
The wind gently sways her golden hair,
The joyful maiden with a butter bread and beer
All those moments gone as the master said,
"Could we cultivate lives on this land no more?"
She said,
"No master, they spread their ecstasy. The soil has gone addicted, they have gone addicted."
The master contemplated,
"Was it that plague?"
"Yes, greed and ideology. The poison of soil and soul. Mix them together and the blood spills."
A contemplation.
JW Harvey Jul 2014
It seems like just yesterday when we'd give our affection away without a second thought. If they said they wanted it, we believed them. We thought, "if they're willing to ask for someone's heart--something so precious and complex that it needs constant tending--why would they do anything but cherish it?"

As it is, we do anything but nurture one another. If our hearts are gardens--each own's blossoming with combinations of colors and fragrances too beautiful to be anything but unique--then our minds are corporate oil drillers, buying up land with no greater intent than to turn profit. We invest in a lush plot only to **** the land--**** it dry of a natural nectar we cannot ourselves produce--and move on to a new plot of untouched, fertile soil: another new, untapped resource for our consumption.

What became of the gardens you destroyed? Are they as barren as the day you left them? Are they overgrown with weeds in pathetic attempt at recreating that former glory? Or have you never revisited the land that you once claimed, purchased, and called your own?

You know, you were beautiful once too; I can see it under the scars. I wonder who destroyed your garden, who drilled through your crust--relentlessly, mercilessly--until your soul gave and bubbled up to their hands for the taking. That's what brought you to drilling, after all. You're not consuming, you're replacing. You're trying to regrow.

But flowers don't spring from oil. You need a gardener to tend to your tarnished land. Yes, even as your surface gets greener, your well will be dry; give it time. Oil is born from seasons--generations--of an evolving land. With your gardener by your side, you'll get there. Trust them. Cherish them. And, above all, be their gardener in return.

— The End —