Tomorrow crawls up your sleeves.
You do not hearken.
Rather, you kick up dust
and play blame games in the mud
while the frail eyes of your mind
see other hands turning brown to green.

Tomorrow cries as you kick up more dust
You still do not listen
Rather, using your grimy brown fingers,
you lift seeds into your mouth.
Your teeth crush nearly all
Yet you blame enemies for their death.

Tomorrow comes.
You dash out of the mud
and spit your
last seeds into your hand.
You rush to the field, finally ready to till
but the soil hisses, the wind laughs
and other hands wave at you.
You finally see:
They could not turn your brown to green.
While their teeth chew fruits,
Yours gnash in pain

And your entire body weeps, for it is too late.
Too late.

Categories: Poetry

2 Comments

Randy Pittsinger · June 19, 2018 at 1:21 pm

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    ife · June 21, 2018 at 4:12 am

    Thank you so much!

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