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The earth doesn’t care for tender hands.
It bites.
It claws.
Roots crack sidewalks like broken ribs,
snarling through stone,
hungry for a sky that’s never promised.

Winds don’t whisper; they roar—
feral and insolent,
ripping leaves from branches as if
daring trees to bleed.
Thunder growls in the belly of the night,
its fangs bared in electric fury.

Rivers don’t dance;
they devour.
Churning mud, swallowing banks,
dragging trees like corpses down
an endless throat.
The ocean pulls at the edges of the world,
a beast gnawing on the cliffs,
spitting salt and bone.

Even the flowers ache,
their beauty born of battle—
pushing through rock-cracked soil;
a bloody rise,
petal by petal,
their perfume a scream
too sweet for us to understand.

And we?
Ants crawling through the chaos,
pretending nature is ours to tame.
But the forest waits quietly,
patient as time.
One day the vines will take everything back.

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