little rows of herbs
soaking in sun
that will by miracle
transform to sweet climax
on the tongue.

how pitiful your rage
and tongue-wagging
when life doesn’t line up
the way they you see fit.

what a shame you miss out on the glory
of life, a treasure to behold and never
meant to be a pawn
in your bitter black
heart of rage, stuck beneath the detritus
of your own painful choices.

how you miss the sweet taste of forgiveness
and grace that pushes up from the pit
and rises whole
and beautiful despite the scorn
when you deny miracles unseen.

the thighs must burn when you only march to the beat of the straight and narrow band
playing the thump-da-thump rhythm
on repeat.

oh pathetic one who would cast shame, know the shame

is your own.
only the desperate plant in rows.

you miss the wild

how it takes root
and thrives
despite your scorn
and rises
and persists
because of the One who knits it
in spite of your vitriol.

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