Wild Weed

The child stops when there is no answer to his cries. He gives up and lies down to die.

The wild weed is wrenched from the earth. Loosing the struggle for survival, ousted, eradicated, trampled into unimportance and non-existence. Lines in the sand erased by the tide of history just as the soul cries out “I am”, history says “don’t think so”.

And Dad says to the corpse, “now that is how a child should be, quiet, obedient, obliging”.


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