We grew in noxious soil,
and yearned for a moment without torment.
Our selfishness ensured all suffered;
every apple fell shrivelled and bruised.
The truth twisted and knotted our bark;
withered leaves buried fetid fruit.
Disease rotted our roots;
no shears could sever our twine.
Destroyed by blades of hate,
we knew neither compassion nor remorse.
A family coiled by poisoned vines—
a lifetime fed on dirt.
Blood Burning
sweet perfumes linger longer than warmth