the boy with the scissors

I warn you, the words may be more malignant than beautiful.  

It’s a story about a boy and his plant, the seed that took so long to sprout even a stem.  

The seed that, at first, grew out wry and wild, 

impeccably sideways.  

It’s about how he, struck down by a quiet rage, cut the withered plant down.  

Yet how he, tempered with pain, knew its propensity to grow green and large,

and let its little leaves sprout once more, 

beautiful this time, 

something important 

but unrecognizable.  

It’s about how the sun nourished that plant with every ounce of its character, 

made it in color, this time,

reflecting a bud that would surely flower.

But this story is about an old leaf that grew,

wry and wild on its lurid green parent,

a thorn amongst its pretty allies.

And this story is about how one bad leaf made him cut it down again,

every atom from the stem to its unopened bulb.  

It was a beautiful plant, but we will never know.

One bad leaf 

brought hurt to his soul

and scissors to his hands.

So he broke its lifeline and turned the whole thing to death,

before it ever had

a heartbeat.