Mile High, literally.
Sative, Indica, Hybrid.
Down from the north the memories flood.
Virginia Dale to Ft. Collins to The Big Smoke.
We need the wall. Not on the border, but here.
Here near what’s left of the range. A wall to
stop the condos. Wild abandon veiled as progress.
When will we learn? When it’s too late.
More and more it will be about fluid. Running out of
all of them. The dark ones and the light ones.
All gone, okay, bye bye now. Sure, prep away, but
it ain’t gonna help ya when the rain stops and
the ground closes up shop. Not a drop.
Sirens sound and the paramedics rush forth.
Paddles, injections but the brain stopped working
years ago. I guess we have the memories, and
this is something. Think about them.