Here is the world in its faulty treaties, crossed borders, olive groves and rose bushes. Ocean-sea
currents of the turtles, and wind.

Here are people living on through wars, sides, think pieces.

We like to think—like to argue—that the sides are different, that the powers that be are trustworthy,
but really everyone is in bed with everyone else.

Here is this metal taken from that land that was never yours to begin with. There go the deadly
lies by past presidents, their graves still lie in dirt, their skin still disappears in time.

At the end of the day, is coffee the price of broken backs? Is a text due the cost of mines through
Earth and fingers through dirt?

So here is this throne and crown of bones, of skin, of fingers you have to step over to climb up.
Careful not to look down or you might glance at what it’s made of.