texture

a cockamamie scythe it tumbles fumbles mumbles bumbles crumbles, even, into the ground the metal all broken, splintering away, the earth has spoken licked the ore with its fiery tongue and scooped it up into its belly of a mouth, the ore greets the oil as it floats in black oceans of saliva / no signs no time seems to have passed, every once and again needles probe the oil and little bits will spurt up into the cold (or hot) air above

the mouth is a hot home blood, sweat, and tears have seeped into it for milennia, placating the hungry groans of the belly below