my soul

is like this forest floor

a fertile soup

of death

decaying bits of life

upon which you rain

to incubate

in the richness of the mire

the seeds and sprouts

of verdancy

optometry of greed

i live in a world

where vision

has been reduced

to the ability to see

a goldmine

in an idea

a world

where divine gifts

have been reduced

to market value



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