Herbe Mauvaise

It lies upon her back,

in a grotesque fashion.

Lumps and bumps appearing,

the cracks begin to gash.

This is no physical mass,

NO, nothing can contain it.

It is but the breeze

of cool on a winters day.

Yet this breeze is not

gentle, I do declare!

It howls and growls,

and snarls and shouts.

Much like a canine.

But, Woe, what did

I but say in this verse?

This is not physical.

It is the plague of

a mind,

Its very material-

twisted and changed.

Nothing can stop it,

no apothicy  can cure

the meanders of a

starving weed.