Compost

The smell of rot,
With the texture of sugar,
Gritty,
And granulated,
And rich.

The acidic peels of oranges long gone,
Eggshells of plenty,
And exhales long drawn,

Thick,
Sweet,
And Diverse...

Dense as a brick
With more value than gold,
Into the new
With remains of the old.

One mans leftovers
Another man's meal,
Full of all the goodness,
For a plant to steal.

The cycle goes on
From seedling to sprout,
Onto a plate
Then into the grout.

All can live on
If it really does try,
From bottles to eggshells—
None need to die.

And you are a part
Of a cycle so vast,
Don't toss it in the bin
And make this world last