He sat ever so tearfully,
Perched against one of the now forgotten
Breathtaking replicas of the Van Aken stone fruit tree,
That were made to be monstrously perfect at the seams
By the sometimes ignored horticulture drones
That thought solely of their survival.
Built, hidden, slowly in thinning groves
Where robotics rustled leaves, moving in furious motions.
He wrote about how infuriating it had been
Patiently searching through misleading documents.
How, at times, they were just a pile of stupid fucking lies
While the others had claimed to understand
How taxing it must have been
But never did shit about it.
What was the point in speaking
When they don’t want to listen.