Somewhere, some lost years ago, someone(s) planted a seed
Watered in wounded silence, fertilized by pride,
a vine emerged.
Hydra-leafed, the vine grew stronger, tendriling
Invisible save for the weighted shoulder,
the hesitant eye.
Thus tended, the poison-garden grows.
One day, a gardener enters to
tend and mend.
But the vine has thrived too long
The vine—what doesn’t?—wishes
So the vine does the only thing
it thinks it can.
And another seed of hurt has now been sown.
To break the cycle: garden alone.