The idea starts small
Many you can feel it's rough edges
But they're much too small
To be a real bother
Then the idea grows
It sprouts, and enlarges
And plants it's roots
Bristling with nettles
And thorns
Still small
But you notice now
You prick your fingers on them
From time to time
But it's a good idea
The thorns aside
You decide to build upon it
You add more ideas
And the root,
Larger now,
Begin to bend
Ever so slightly
They strain
And the thorns,
Bristles
Nettles
Respond
They grow larger
Now your hand bleeds a but
But this is your idea
So you grow it
And let it grow too
You build upon it further
More ideas
Bigger ideas
And the roots sag
More grow to carry the weight
But these roots grow desperately
They grow into the soil
In which your garden sits
And intertwine within other ideas
And those grow thorns too
So you put on a pair of gloves
To handle your ideas
But now the biting bits of the growth
Tear at you
At your eyes
Your chest
Your legs
And so more protection becomes necessary
From your ideas
But now they're large
They are the garden
This one built on that
That one built on still more
And as the blood drips from you
Into the once fertile soil
The idea turns ravenous
And demands more
And you, accomplice to its demand
And soon the soil glistens
with a shimmering lust
More
More
More
And suddenly
You look up
Far, far up
Into the reddened branches
And bespiked growths of your garden
And in awe of your folly
Know that what you have done
What you have created
What has created the you
Bloodied amidst the petals and surly stubs
Is a once subtle
Now perfect
Monster
And it grows, all on its own
With the essence of your veins
Within the cavitations of your heart
And spirit
Now a hedge maze
Of certain calamity
Gnarled root and tuber a prickly vine
Enmeshed
With what you once were
And will never be again
Heavy
It is heavy
You feel the abrasive bark
Against the wobble of your shoulders
And you don't know
How much longer
You will hold
You forget
You lose the light
Of the nourishing Sunbeam
Blocked out against the twilight
Of certain condemnation
And in the dark undergrowth
A sudden straw
Placed upon the brutalized back
A mere petal
Like all the others at your feet
Brings you thundering to your knees
And the great idea
The great beast
You realize
Is you
It always has been
And as you tumble downwards
A Savage crash
Roots, more Savage even than before
Sprout and grasp you
The soil
The whole garden
And as it sinks deeper, and deeper
Into the abyssal earth
You feel the dragging about your neck
And you know
You feel
You see
You sense all lost in a flurry
of collapsing notion
And bristle
Branch
Thorn
Spike
Nettle
Scratching
Biting
Ripping what's left to shreds
And tatters upon tatters
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