The seedlings break into the first bloom
of young explosives – pink roses, blue lilies.
Childhood meanders and passion rises
into the tribal mode, where exploration turns deadly –
a mastery of needles and powder lines, a quick snort
of primodrial pills that braid the new and raw
into the manageable.
Ponderous with weed and smoke, delicate branches
extend into a void of sleep.
Veins become more than blood rivers as boats
of bitter root and black poison float serotonins of joy
that deliver waves of doom.
How many seedlings in this room
crush their ambitions and shift
to this new biology of meth labs and ambition
that kill all inituative with false promises
of happiness and enough bravery
to rob bloodlines and friends, carry off honor
in betrayal, sex, relationships that wither
as the shoots shoot up or savor
their imitation lives.
Where in the fertile earth can they grow
when their petals are patched with picked at sores
and their roots swell as the last available
between the toes earth piercing
finds the stems leveled and their drainage raw?
We need to plant a frenzy of love in dying ground.
We need to kneel in the dirt and mulch our hearts out.
What about, when I grow up I want to be?
What about more mandatory greenhouses
instead of steel jails,
How did our new soil burn so badly
outside of hell?
lana Akkad art