Withering crops
Of human stock
Lay troubled
Dieing of
Self inflicted
Wounds
Filled with
The salt
Of the Earth
Instinct turned
Destructive
So that the
Surest path
To survival
Is not
To survive.
An experiment, to see if I am capable of writing one poem a day for an entire year. Readers are welcome to comment on the work, or post their own work in response.