We are made from earth,

Soil, compact under our skin, nourishment

Rushing through the xylem of our veins,

Divine whispers were breathed out into our 

Souls, descended into our vessels,

Our clocks began to beat,

Our eyes opened,

And we were so ungrateful.

As we walked through life, we moved against it.

Overworked, mundane,
blue pills, migraines,

Our vessels became empty,
We emptied our vessels and became 

Abnormal to Mother Earth, detached 

From our own souls,

Spirituality decayed in our wooden chests, 

Materialism hollowed us out, never gave us a way out.

The Great Depression of our generation,

A spiritual war,

Where our inner refuge is uprooted, 

Our stems brittle, 

Our lives discoloured,

We wilt, permanently.

When we leave this earth, we never really leave it.
Our body becomes one with the dirt we once walked upon,
Soil meets soil once more.

As you soak into the land below,
You think,
"The empty vessel that was me, was given so much importance; 

the material was only going to dematerialise."

"Why, did I never nourish the one part of me that was permanent?"

The Earth holds your dead corpse,

And your soul,

That permanent, neglected little thing,

Ascends quietly back up to its original abode.

Someone will walk away from your flowerbed,
And they will not come back tomorrow,

Your eyes will open,
And you will try to close them,

Then you will know you were so ungrateful.