This Land Rots

This land rots,
The lark the boy shot
lies desiccated claw among the worms,
and the grass bends on terms
of the soured wind we refuse
to know we abuse
with our greed
and self-love we call need.

This land rots
Magellan’s whale-road clots
with cellophane and Styrofoam
shed and tossed from nothing less than the comb
she uses to stroke her hair
with care to make it fair
for her needy
self-infatuated greed.

This land rots
with the ignorance of nots.
And even this wind we soured is a raven perch
where one black eye makes its natural search
of the corrupted field
for its spoiled yield,
justified to satisfy our need-
greed.

In response to the Ragtime Daily Prompt fungus. A weak association to be sure, but think of it this way. The world needs a fungus to purge the rot of human ignorance, idiocy, and self greed.