The vines will think they are veins.
They will try to eat the alabaster pillars
—mind, I have no particular attachment to those pillars,
yet still—
and its pillowed places will fill up with brambles
—mind, I don’t care about the comfort of those inside,
yet still—
and when you try to cut them, they will shout,
‘what about the lawn, turning lush, hiding stones?
you would rob us of a chance to rise up like them?’
And maybe someone will even say it builds character,
bulbs of ichor pooling in its guts. It shows its true heart.
Maybe some very cleansing organ waits to beat inside.
Here’s the contemptuous truth:
riot is a fertilizer, but some things prefer to grow
out of the flesh of better neighbors.
Yea, even rosiest vines will weed. Especially those.
Their roots gather apostemes, and gullible creatures drink.
What about the kinder tree, lost as this violence
rushed to cast bruise-shadows on freedom’s old stones?
Well, you say, at least the walls are clean.