Weed Killer
There is a magic plant that will ease the suffering of the innocent.
A doctor can't prescribe it.
A farmer can't grow it.
Yet it is all over.
Against the toxic chemicles used to kill it.
Just like a fatal ash that is caused by the chemicle gloom that rises in the morning
and blows into your windows when the wind is right.
If one person suffers because it is forbidden
then it is the tyrants who wears the torturer's black hood
by leaving them in a bed of spikes
like some wounded civil war soldier crawling to the shade
where the skies are vast but the towns are miniscule
Where sirens ring from the town over
Where agonized victims remember the faces of those who abandoned them
They are the ghosts of the plains that haunt us!
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