It started with a seed.
A small, innocent green pebble,
Cast aside, thrown elsewhere,
Into the cracks of existence,
From which misery and gloom seep.
Where happiness is lost forever,
Lost in wisps of darkness.
This was the home of that innocent,
Young, beautiful seed.
It would never be seen again.
For several days later,
Something new arose from that crack.
An arm, twisted and wretched,
Stretched into the world,
Hungry for vengeance.
With an awful grin on its face,
Still in the home,
The vine rose.
Everything around it died;
The wicked arms did the deeds.
Wrestling, strangling, killing.
The stench of death hung over the air,
Feeding the vine.
Its face was still hidden in the crack.
The vine didn’t know what it was killing.
It just knew that it was killing,
And that was victory.
And when it knew it had won,
When it knew it had slaughtered
Everything in the world,
It drew its face from the crack,
Only to find that it was wrong.
Before it lay the most beautiful
Thing in the world.
It was a seed,
Small, innocent, shining,
Without ever knowing a thing,
The vine watched,
As it fell into a crack.