Sickly Cultures

Each Leaf sounds like the Trampling Feet

Of a Thousand sickly Cultures;

Each Blade of Grass gives wind the taste 

Of Bled-Out Ground and Hard-Fried Sun,

Boiling through the Egg-White Sky,

Have a try, if you will,

And take some home to your Family!

It'll be a Mustard Gas!

And All and All, 

You can Blame that Morbid Texture

On the Pleading Hunger, far from Home.

A simple task for one who'll live again tomorrow.