Citrus, Dragonfruits, and butterflies colored a minimal urbanized alleys. Neither would you call it a forest nor the suburbs. Wheels paraded the soil as how an old toilet has become an ecosystem for a new life. Greens, limes, and helmets for pots paint a nostalgic home through the sun's rays. The babies and bees sings with the chickens and stray muts. A free breeze chains me into a mind fixated to unwind. Cobwebs shelters the gumamelas from grains of humane green. They feed on our joy as how we jest on their suffering. Troubling the roots towards the means to loose hope. At the verge of fading, staying is death, misery met. The lattice segregating the own and owned, slowly stoned by the hands of tome. Hear the birds and cicadas chime.
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