• the weed cracks a fracture from your head to your chest;
    marks a fissure in the travel between your mouth to the rest
    and it watches as the structure slides down to the south
    in the wake of the fears that always filled you with doubt.

    because your motives and desires were never enough
    since that virus caught fire and you were infected with sloth
    and the worry of your words always cut off your tongue
    so the cry wasn't heard when you were left to be hung

    then the structure you created had collapsed in the wind
    and you resigned yourself to fate all over again
    and the fracture of the building that you had set up
    collapsed in the dust and you were left in the rough.

    and you saw the silver lining in the wreck of the mirror
    where you looked upon the ashes and it became clear
    that the cure for the virus sat not on the shelf
    but lied purely in the change that you would make of yourself.

    the noose that you accepted then faded with time
    when you realized that the virus was an effect of the mind;
    that the antidote lied not in the world around you,
    but in the self-imposed loophole of a catch twenty-two

    so with a resolution to change you stood up in the dark
    and ripped the soul of the weed right out of your heart
    your words were still cut and your stature still meek,
    but the groundwork was laid and you were no longer weak