Compost

Text by Nick Regalado

Boys in prisons of identity
Walking through the offices of life
They center their vision on opinion
And swear their allegiance alone

A cult of nature sent sauntering
The monkeys, the mantis, the beetle

They bury their lives
Out in the yard
Where a garden now roots and blossoms

Rich in the soil
The shit of existence
Recycled reality
Composed of the playthings
That we once found stunning and shamed

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