Veldt

We bring death & our grasses.

Savannah sacks across the seas
dressed as plenty & called colonisation.

Sharpshooters, architects – meaningless, salmon in shoes.

Pitter patter is the matter.

Lawn is superseded
tarmac cravat
buck-formal pretend
it’s just a phase.
The beasts of our darker part
trail behind tails tucked
in a false concession
all slaver in pure certainty,
lap at the leaving life.

What about art?
It is flame.
We lope towards the endless.

Grass half full, always
choose to stay.

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