A town, from an empty wave to hollow humans who pass, 

The diagnosis made those starved of ethnology.

The house at the top of the hill, mistaken as Marinera Drive, 

From tomato street whose real name is Marina Drive 

A distinct shade of Indian red, fresh, vibrant, juicy,

The balanced harmony of the contents inside;

The counterfeit community which surrounds us, 

Where I noticed fabricated feelings.

A fern, the petunya, the soil

The morning dew set deep in the core of the earth

The deafly hearing miniscule complaints 

From their amplitude destroyed and waves sent to oblivion

A you throw like a damsel and told you so’s 

The rooted optimism of those around me

The rays stronger than the light from above 

Where the ideals and others forcing what is real

A member of those destroyed by the explorers

The plague spread by their ignorance

The small town, tomato street 

From one of the few not starved of ethnology