Aggro Culture

We reached the point where dying became less fun,
It took nearly three decades of trying:
Cultivating madness over barren soil, passing fallow
Seasons in the fields with shovels in our hands
Etching away at dirt for rain trenches
And irrigated lines; the seeds were planted,
Our crop sang prolific as we gorged ourselves
Upon the labor of our desperation, vines of wild-eyed
Grapes, prodigious wheat, frenetic orchids
In a garden of haphazard colors.
We tended to the whims of our fruit
And madness sprung from the earth to clutch at
Stars with its clutching tendrils, clutching, oh but
We fed the disease with diverted veins,
Watered them well with green and blue ether,
Until now, the toll and toil too taxing to complete;
This harvest, this yield, we can no longer stomach
Its burden yet by dirty light it blooms,
Produces another bushel, another peck.

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