As I struggle restrained
by charcoaled fleece,
unvocalised and uninspired
another “baa” to add to the
manured gears at work,
plagiarized -
sunlight awakening
and moon-dust
dozing serene,
by a need for purchase -
an invasion of the minute
green-noted men,
outlining fortune tales
of a win every time
just pay the million deposit first,
success is guaranteed
just be lonesome.

Perhaps my insatiable curiosity
of fictional footsteps, lotions,
potions in various flavours
rows upon racks
of wondrous words
are leading me astray,
Vicarious witnesses might
consider me a dreamer
uncommitted to a prospect of wealth,
am I truly shuffling along
instead of chasing paper moths
straight into a debt induced flame?

She was the moon
then the sun rose,
daylight looked on,
as he buried away
his dear prose,
a grave to mourn?
or a seed was sown?
She was the winter
then the sun rose,
all the blood bled,
all the tears shed,
manured into the land,
on which they both wed,
and in the deep ends lied
his dear prose.

You are a burning fire
Capable of giving heat and warmth
Or burning everything wild into ashes
YOU, are standing here today with your wings
Ready to fly high, all set and prepared
You see the  the weapons coming to you right?
To cut  your wings and throw you down in the ground again
But today these wings cannot be cut
The wings that you have today has taken
Years to grow, nurtured by struggle
Watered with tears of pain and despair
Manured with the sensation of darkness all around
Your roots are strong, since you have grown
Facing all the storms and thunder of problems
So, fly high today!
Fly high leaving every thing behind
Fly to conquer your dreams
Fly to catch the colors of rainbow
And paint yourself today
You are not someone be in the ground my friend
You  are someone to touch the sky!

Despite seed manured bird
droppings on fertile ground,
weeds win, in all cases while
natural culling is condoned.

Isolate segregate eliminate
are politics of agriculture,
an unnatural environment
where man controls nature.

But what of Covid, if we are
the pests who's in charge now?
This benevolent earth has
been plagued by pleonexia.

We need to be sieved, sift out
the debris amongst us, dispense
with the artificiality of humanism
remove the thorns of septicaemia.

We need to break step, not tread
militarily on its surface, pounding
our resolve without heeding echoes
that have been screaming to be heard.

The earth showing up those of value
and those who are good for nothing
does not mean that daisies on ones
grave are a celebration of virtuosity!