It started that morning,
When he awoke from the dream.
All his sorrows were seeds.
His town, a fallow field.
Inside his head, it was spring.
Time to plant, the voice hissed.
Mother stood in his way, trying to stop
What he knew must be done.
Time to prune, he thought.
Tools in hand,
He found the place
Where the children were.
The voice roared.
The pulse pounded in his ear.
He would not fail.
It rained
Bullets.
They fell.
They all fell.
And he was the last.
What is left is a field.
Flowers weeping every day.
Never ceasing.
