Darkest winter night as I fumbled blind for weeds,
spent scorching days in passion and lazy fashion,
now as poison gripped I fight to nourish my seeds,
manured these weeds I fight, lured by false vision;
end near but had to happen sometime, why not now,
for haphazard toil not given a single fruit of worth,
late now to grow new as unbending time’s bow,
bleeding hands work feverishly to clear field henceforth;
pained for weeds I grew, my only kids and legacy,
why persevere to grow other legacies over mine,
just for the visitors’ unkind valuations, what idiocy,
for though longed flowers these thorns now I pine;
weeds bled with me cruel, this night without sight,
chasing to right perceived wrongs decided by might.
Solitary Wanderer 