smell so sweet
in tolerant nature
when within its walls
lie death and victims’ cries?
To scent this growth would be criminal, yet
we do, and we douse it with water – the flame
that gives it fragrance –
and when it blossoms wide enough to flourish,
we are as doomed as a black thumb should be.
Could we plunge our hands
into damaged sinews’
frayed blood vessels
and find warmth in hidden spirit?
Have a tug of war and pull out hatred,
intolerance, indifference and anger,
to find the stuff we possess
but which remains hidden – buried
with the goodness we were born with –
tucked inside our own medicine chest.
There are things there to help us heal,
bind wounds, accept and love,
even force untainted oxygen to
cancers benign at birth
but which grow steadily malignant
once fed from the mouths
of devoted kin and a world rapidly
oozing its centre.