Foliage hard and sparce, tough to the touch.
This, my wasteland, is filled with your filthy incantations.
Toxins that dilute my slow flowing springs,
organics that stagnate my peaceful creeks.

It is rather unfortunate however,
your absence doesn't purge my ailments
as your weeds rooted deep and strong.
A strangle hold on the trunk of my sunken willow tree.

Gashes so deep they can be found raging beside my ancient calicatheres long deceased.
Wounds that scar this land beyond Chronus' reach.
So that creatures I will never see before me may read my story aloud and scream my woes as I.

You cared not for my fauna,
 only for the vigor you find in the flesh you consume.

You hold sacred the glittering gift of life but refuse to see the soul that danced on my gentle breeze
 as if my cries for mercy were whispered from beyond the veil of mortality.

i shall be your calamity.