Wednesday, April 9, 2008


Somewhere in the arid lands
The weeds grow. Their roots
Hold the loose soil together-
Dry sand
Linked by natural ropes
Like bridges between the mountains;
Nourishing, these fingers
feed the seed within
the Corpses
Of past weeds, silently lain
Buried under the moss
That has grown to feed the air.

Somewhere, in the fertile lands
Grasses grow. And flowers-
Bloom amongst the grey-green ground
Drawing the farmer's hands (and eyes)
Into the soil-

The Farmer, he does not care
For the weeds; all he says
Is "Pull those weeds!" his face as red
As the mad bull's eyes; he rages
Still speaking-

"All they do
is steal nutrients
from the flowers;
Weeds bring
no beauty at all
to my perfect garden."

The hoe strikes-
The soil churns
Another root gone.

"For all weeds do
is take and take,
never giving back
just to feed themselves."
He continues, Digging
planting new seeds
As his hoe strikes-
the rocks and stones, beneath the moss
Where the Corpses rot
In Silence.

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