Eve's Monologue

Eve’s Monologue

 

There is a weed that cannot be plucked

 

Other weeds surround it,

The kind common to you and I, 

The kind that are susceptible to the grasp and jolt

Of a Gardener’s hand, or to the wrath of a whacker

 

But there is one pesky weed that cannot be plucked,

Whacked, cut, or removed at all, no matter how

Vigorous the method

 

And I see it growing straight

Crooked

Sideways

Twisted

 

The other weeds, the other forms of vegetation

They get vibrant, their faces get dull, they go from

Small to big to small again

 

Seeds to dust

 

But this one pesky weed

Does not change height

Does not change colour

Black and towering

Shaped like a Vulture’s neck in prayer

Centered in a field that is living and dying

Without ever accomplishing one of those

States itself

 

Well, where do I fit into this vision?

 

The way I see it there are two variations

 

One where I am the only one in the whole world who can

Remove the weed, with it gone the field stays a single

Colour, a constant height; it has a consistent level of life

 

Another where I sit cross-legged in the field, the weed

Growing through my thigh, the skin that broke around it

Turning dark, no blood, instead century old ash flakes off

 

Reviews

[Dayran]

It is always that ... ' where I am the only one in the whole world who can ' ... and then the choice of decision becomes easy.

[eglantine]

"Seeds to dust" love that line, especially love that it stands on its own.
"Shaped like a Vulture’s neck in prayer" another amazing line!
Great ending!

Only suggestion I really have is trimming the beginning up a bit--cut out unnecessary words.