top of the palm hunched like a spent witch
fallen over her broom, its thick green
hair barely tossed by the wind.
her brown limbs lacking oxygen,
left her tattered luggage stuck in the mud.
that abandonment makes me think of
all those stories of hate you wrote
thinking it would make me want to
turn the page, but I tossed your book into
the water. and it makes me wonder
how spoiled creatures can hold so much
ugly and suffering, yet leave it
displayed out for the offering.
makes me want to cut the witch down,
rid my sight of vile palms that
make me think of so much pain.
makes me wish I never followed you
down this beguiling path of eternal
sunshine and hidden rains.
makes me wish you knew me before this.