The Fatal Weed
When she looks up, she can see
she is the slightest, shyest weed
in a garden of vivid reds
This knowledge does not pain her.
For if she looks down, as she knows,
she will stand, awful, exposed,
the tyrant of creatures yoked
to scurry in her barren shade,
slipping in the mud she's overthrown.
Better to be Beauty's humblest maid,
its plain hanger-on, its unpromising jade,
than the sad siren of the same despair
she presides over, that poisonous shade
flowing through her veins
and poisoning the trusting plains.