Mon Santos! My Farmville is Burning!

Dear diary:

What fresh hell is this?

Draft for mon santos
composition via text
transcribed with line breaks
as they appeared on my phone:

 

Scorched earth grows
scorn. Edit-able seed
sprouts from grainular lips
to yours, in slender
soliditude. Drink me, upside
down the mountain tops
to your see. Saw, this
molten hush in the early
hour dawn. Drawn
landscape we sew, stitch
by cross-glory stitching
glow. Scorched earth
scorned, to quicken this
row. We’ve nothing to
grow. No. Nothing to
groan, nothing grown
absent to the row.

no  (no    (no        (no)
earth-bound echo
plainfully so
Spring runoff savoured,
poetically though
Scorched burning swollen
to quicken the slow
lavaglass coolant to sweet
honeyed flow turns
scorched amber pendant
worn slenderly so
Butterscotch trace
of thirst afterglow. Sewn from afar
to each moneyed row (by row  (by row)
moulted, hardened

mon santos
(no)