There's no excuse for this,
no good reason or rhyme
for the gem of doubt
crystalizing within my heart.
I planted it long ago
in the fertile soil of
a cardiac crevice
and buried it,
not knowing that you're
only supposed to store treasures there.
It grew despite the darkness,
feeding in quiet repose
on the subtle pains and fears,
expanding into insecurities,
billowing into storm clouds
of doubt and mistrust
while I wonder where
the root of it all began
and how deep the
fingers reach.
At last, a blossom sprouted,
jagged and sharp in
an onyx burst of
bottomless guile,
fracturing the light into fragments,
the botanical separatist
that acts no longer as a guest
but a resident.
Fragility,
one of the lies this
blackened flora whispers,
speaking poison to nourish
the tender soil that
instinctually attempts to
reject the weed that chokes
the meddlesome voice of reason,
desperately trying to
pluck at the serrated surface
of that crystal bloom.
So it grew, slow and steady
until a beam of light
split the clouds and
out from the parted sky
shot a bolt of lightning
that struck the toxic weed.
At once, it cracked,
shards falling into the soft ground below
but resilient nevertheless,
intact,
though a shrill screech rang
and the onyx gem
began to fog over,
accompanied by the sound
of a dying pulse.
Another bolt followed,
reducing the flower by half,
leaving the rest to shrivel
and die in quiet agony,
waiting for the final strike.