O you demons of the emerald lie, you petrochemical priests of the lawn, you keepers of suburban Hell — I raise my voice, not in prayer, but in fire. You call it Roundup, like a child's game, as if poison were pastime, and murder a maintenance ritual.
You nailed it Farasha. Thank you.
What the hell, Farasha!? How do you know my life so well, my struggles, my prayer!? Thank you for putting into words my soul's cry.
Thank you, beautiful and powerful.
The Gates of Suburbia. Locked (with a Ring Camera) from the inside. 🙏🏾