Diaspora

We are scions of the soil

Of a soil we can never return to

Plucked and transplanted into a soulless earth.

Longingly we gather in bouquets

And reach for the sun we knew, in an attempt

to siphon the richness to our new “home”.

But it rains on bastards and scions alike

This is the land of the backyard winners

Underground paramours, and tinted derma.

But it’s foreFace is that of the sun burnt thieves

Stripped of nutrients, the earth cracks from a manufactured dryness.