A baby's cries fill the air.
Mom cradles the bundle
While the doctor does the deed.
Open the skull,
Put a seed in its head.
A black, rotten seed
To fill it with dread.
A plant will grow.
A curly vine of red.
Its leaves unfurl.
It likes to curl
Around your little brain.
It grows and grows.
And the child knows:
This plant of silky tendrels,
This seed of obsidian black,
These leaves splattered in bloody ink,
Are lies.
Lies told at birth,
That grow
And grow
And grow.
The roots go deep within.
And there is no end in sight.
The child is lost forever
In a winding, little lie.
