The cold Earth is opening.
The desert is infected.
Starving cacti throb with hunger;
the land sweats poverty through
cracks in the street.
Ants are in a glass jar.
I gather them,
preach to them;
let them pray in the hot sun.
Then, I kneel as one of
God’s knights
and slaughter each with a slow dime.
Money is priceless.
So is time.
The desert is infected.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 