Why is it that we
Are the only ones who remember
That mistletoe is a parasite and a poison?
It hangs from the boughs of every tree in this town
And they revere its suffocation as sacred.
Are we so lionized for our mosses and ivies,
Our own wholesome fruits, our beautiful bare branches?
No. They exult in the choking and withering
As the highest form of devotion--to lay down one's life
Whilst in the same breath scorning both the beauty of mutualism
And the freedom of the only leaves sprouting from your inviolate self
Being your own.
Perhaps it is true that one builds a tolerance
After enough of some poison draughts,
But there is no doubt that being force-fed for so long
Is killing us.
Even the blindest gods' darts
May wound us by their nature--
Something so harmless as to be taken for granted
Nevertheless pierces the heart
By decrying us for not having one.