Zach Murphy

The Garden

The wildflowers wilt over their own feet as I trudge through the dusty,
jaded soil. One of my legs is broken. My mouth is parched. And my stripes
burn.

I wonder if the workers before me dealt with this kind of heat. I wonder if
the workers after me will suffer even more. I wonder if there will even be
workers after me.

The honey isn’t so sweet here anymore. The dream has melted away. This
planet is no longer my garden.

As I use my last shred of will to drive my stinger into the wrinkled ground,
I pray that my final moments will be graced with a cool breeze.