It is easy to see others as monsters.
We sit back and know we are incapable of such inconceivable acts.
We don’t want to ask why, because once we begin to understand, we might relate. And if we relate, we might see ourselves in the monsters.
And we mustn’t.
Because we aren't monsters.
We live in fine communities. We say our prayers and go to sleep every night.
We don’t leave our heartbroken wives to deal with their emotional vacuums and, in the meantime, replace them with a better model.
We don’t visit our daughters’ bedrooms and commit monstrous acts behind closed curtains.
We don’t talk about these things. We don’t ask why.
We don’t ask why, in the middle of the barren, unhallowed ground of a backyard graveyard, a fragile, white rosebush struggles to find the spring sunshine every May.
It sits there alone, so lovely. If you stop by, make sure to look. Its roots dig deep into the ground, sowed with much blood and many tears.
If you touch it, beware—it has some of the sharpest thorns.
But if it pierces you, don’t worry.
Your blood will only makes it grow stronger; help its roots dig deeper.
Just don’t ask why.
Because, here, the wind will answer.