With goodness erased,
We hate on our buds.
Our matter of taste’s
Attracted to muds.
With group come alongs
Of rightness pretended,
We celebrate wrongs
As rights go suspended.
Hating on our buds
"And the daughter of Zion is left as a cottage in a vineyard, as a lodge in a garden of cucumbers, as a besieged city." – Isaiah 1:8
Cucumber Lodge 
Reblogged this on Cucumber Lodge.