Process by Jordyn Baird

I don’t want to be a clean environment

I want to be poisoned 

I want to rot

For holes tear through my atmosphere 

For my woodlands to burn 

For my rivers to turn sludge

For my creatures to beg a god for the

Reason of this ill 

My ill is deep 

Bandaged with science and ignorance

But below the soil, my environment will

Remain poisoned

It will remain rotted

Wildflowers may bloom from trash

Trees grown from ash 

But a layer within my crust will forever show 

The ill that grasped my life 

Winters ago