Fired soils crack as ancient stoneware. Amputated boughs slump to heat-kissed orchard, pale dirt. Each day another scorched earth policy. The garden blooms its pallid clumps. An open wound of chronic maladies. At least the rugged weeds in fervour, and by god the all fermenting stench. You shrug off blistered skin, but
Words cannot convey your faith in ruins.

▽ | #relic