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Halves MAG
June 7, 2022
Wheat fields stained maroon don’t glow.
Skies full of dark, unnatural shapes
Disrupt the sun and clouds’ flow.
Once a clear blue, now to be ripped
From the hands of its cherished settlers.
The top half shredded with flags of destruction.
How is the moon to see the plains not dead?
Bitter air in heated skies swarm around each stalk,
And what was once expansive now red.
How does wheat grow in cradled un-nature
And expand into wastelands of war?
The bottom half shredded with flags of death.
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