The Missing Touch


Growing a Rose, a purpose...
Wilt answered my call,


To grow a backyard-full of stew's ingredients, a dream carried out...
Green a colour... my finger not,


Sweat kept raining unto this lacquered soil...
Tears kept searching for the veins of this earth,


Thorns twitched in the core of this ground,
Parasite rooted it's minerals,


Such gravely figure you've become,
Haggard and sunken...


Wallow in it - You will be,
The sea might spare you...
But will it be at your presence?