Plastic Succulent by Chase Morris

A new era. Hope for us: fading.
Granted, we had the potential for our essential happiness.

Chasing of the natives this furtive soil became our burden because of our selfishness.

This dark matter born from whores that were then conceived from mold of the Apple.

Over time like that of a rocking chair. The few of us lose our strong purpose from being used.

A fragile lotus standing in the midsts of poison. Peer pressured for evil.

The rest of us lotuses who see consistent hatred, camoflauge under abandoned pavements that have no name.

Where we grow beautifully as we should…

Yet never found or appreciated until we are eradicated.

* * * * *

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