Man's Palm

B.Loza, 11th - Livermore, CA
A man on a breadth of farmland with a sense of urgency. His corn, his instrument, his livelihood. A small wooden shadow of a cabin, home to limited belongings. His true home is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. 

A loving mother watches under him, for she is the very dirt on which he stands. The sky's limit, but a taunting older brother. Ancient father of all whose ample garden of Eden overcame all. Let us be found in the very air you breathe, the same bread you intake, for that way may we not be forgotten. 

At this time, fairness is a myth, while luck is a standard to which humans must compare themselves to. A word no longer a promise but a faraway dream. Our future is no longer in our hands. The palm that feeds us is no longer an option. Imperial titles are uncertain of the turmoil but insensitive to the collective need. Multitudes will line up along the final migration—the last breath, the final sin.