Weedicide

Can one 
unsink
sun 
horizon’s brink 
to clear 
once more, 
yesteryear here, 
now, as before?
 — that time
in rhyme 
with clime
so prime
 — virgin,
as it were:
by sin 
unsullied — ere 
evil
seed
of devil 
weed
was sown — 
by hand
my own,
on land 
now overgrown: 
all else mown 
down
by crown 
thorns 
adorn — 
worn 
acorn
to warn
oak
yet unborn 
would feel stroke 
of axe, be shorn, 
uptorn, 
upon
very morn
of taking root, 
should one dare 
send forth shoot 
or bear
fruit: sour 
grapeshot’s sway 
over suite dour 
rapes — making hay 
of sorts — bower; 
stifles life; 
deflowers;
runs rife — 
scorns sheaves
of corn;
leaves
scant room
for scent pure
of sweet bloom
to lure 
butterfly, honeybee 
and songbird
 — now so rarely heard
here — silence
as of grave 
reigning — whence 
all save 
dragon’s teeth 
(sworn
to seethe)
have flown — 
and I must own
to wicked deed — 
to having borne 
willful weed 
hither,
now able grown
to wither
all else to brown
in its greed
to rule
(true to breed) 
unchecked, to full
 — and its uncoiled 
kernel so 
soiled
good earth no 
other could gain 
toehold, nor 
maintain 
struggle for 
survival
 — forsaken
by all, all — 
e’en scraggly bracken. 
Thus, my concern
is — since I 
yearn
in vain
(for return
of blow Cain
to burn consigned) — 
extent of guilt
I’m maligned
for, and hilt
to which justice 
will exact 
price
for my act;
I can’t fathom 
how deep 
rock-bottom 
lies — if I’ll reap 
slap on wrist,
or whirlwind: 
heap of grist 
round my neck 
like millstone — 
what was for heck 
of it, cyclone; 
what was just 
thoughtless jest 
guillotine I must 
face in earnest —

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