While she would not weather in the greatest of storms,
she provides everlasting sustenance for our insipidity.
She is small.
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.
She was born into the system.
Her life-span… unknown.
She hasn't been given a home yet.
No ceramic chamber for her.
That’s all she deserves.
Will she ever belong?
Subject to a life of ill-treatment.
Forgotten about for days on end she limps.
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.
“Fuck, guys, my basil plant died again…”
-Words by Tom Wheatland