the merciless sun whips the boundless arid loess,

branding the fiery province of Cape Town

a barren home for throats dwindling on a liquid thread.

the fruitful pillows of quartz selfishly abduct the yarn 

from the quilts of auburn red

pleading for the taste

of the fleshy thread once more.

the land's tears slither

to the wiry veins of the unknown

running blue

running hot

with the smoky waves of humankind.

the bone-like, deserted abode

for a family 

of toxic opaque pots

breeds sulfates

and leeching carbon

like the gluttonous sky of pillows

carries their prisoner's weight.

the sun cries

a parched dust cocktail

while the land of Cape Town

receives its annual runoff-pesticide soup

which instills its venom mercilessly,

much like the weeping sun.

the sun still cries,

from its crackling soul,

because in its core it believes

in the cave of missing fabric

below.