When our senses fall against the wildflower
And the rain
Which we often refute as a machine
Softens the incredible
Gravestones
Leaving only a pile of wet dust
That sticks to the bottom of our souls
When the domestic hunters emerged
From their frostbitten sky
One star glided, disparingly
And left us with a small droplet of hope
That we cling to forever
Then filthy oceans
Spilled sewage and waste
Onto our shores
Poisoning our beliefs and our faith
Starving the flowers, and the people
Which led to more gravestones
And more dust
That doesn't have anyplace to stick anymore