Now we are no longer weeds
uprooted and bereft, we can
conquer this old clearing
chastened for its brazen wildness,
break through crusted soil
into the earth we were kept from
and leap into the sun's arms and
onto the fingers of our poisoners,
who will once again relish us
and anoint their mouths
with good poison,
their happiness kept
in tinctures of promises,
labelled with a thousand names,
their sorrows boiled away
into creamy concentrate, shrooming
sluggishly onto the powdery ceiling,
forgotten along with old asbestos
and dreams that are hard to reach.
May they lie sprawled
at the dim window before
our emerald field, content
with what they've grown.
Now we are no longer weeds,
The dew tends lovingly
to our unkempt mane.