Genus Ocimum

While she would not weather in the greatest of storms,

 she provides everlasting sustenance for our insipidity.

 She is small. 

Unpretentious. 

Her subtle appearance is just a mask for her wild within. 

Her habitat is branded with the symbol of a corporate giant. 

Trade is all she's known. 

Transportation. 

She was born into the system. 

Her life-span… unknown.

 She hasn't been given a home yet.

 No ceramic chamber for her. 

Plastic.

 That’s all she deserves.

 Will she ever belong?

 Subject to a life of ill-treatment.

 Forgotten about for days on end she limps.

 Dry.

 Thirsty.

 Defeated.

 You can’t just beg for forgiveness by drowning her in a weeks worth of apologies.

 That'll just kill her faster. 

Don't let her down. 

Try.

 Just… try. 

 “Fuck, guys, my basil plant died again…”

-Words by Tom Wheatland