Waiting On The Fence

Here we are, at last, home. The ground is a pale beige, dusty and spreading up until the mound that hosts an orange tree. One day maybe an orange will fall and roll over here so we can have some, though this has been said for the past three seasons and merely the scent of zest had come thus far. It’s surely a tempting bargain to want what you can’t have and so cheat in order to get it, but if you wait patiently and play your twigs right you might end up with something more special than an orange. We’re humble, relaxed and embellished in our own poetic fantasies.  The leaves tumble around us, the whistling wind knocks the breeze into overdrive and to survive the fall we all firmly grasp, gasp then complete the task of ascertaining a wider knowledge of what it really means to live. You define yours, we’ll define ours.

The atrocities, over the centuries of ancient evolution that provoked a want or need for survival, its primal to clash, stash and die. Regardless to question the demonstrative communal whisper: it is still worthwhile to ensure the most efficient and productive settlement? Despite the vanity of sight, smell and sound being devoid from the defending spectators that would smote the seeds that continue the quest for betterment. The etiquette these neanderthals represent of biological war baffles not only the frenzied barrage of fruitful selection but the cause of a just attribute. Finally undermining the misinterpretation of a skirmish that will only end when rapacity is not the most prevalent of the enemies traits.

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