He means as much

To this particular

Patch of earth,

As the surrounding weeds do.

He graciously

Waters the

Thirsty soil,

In a feeble attempt,

To stimulate some of the fallen flowers.

Only to see the

Greedy weeds,

Suck it all up, both in

And through their veins.

(Not even saving seconds for the starving centipedes.)

He pleads with the relentless invaders,

To share at least a portion of

 Of the foreign fertilizers,

That he tirelessly works to afford,

With his family of

Crumbling chrysanthemums,

And the now

Exhausted eggplants.

And to live in harmony with

The

Green,

Green,

Grass.

But the

Despicable weeds

Once again,

Turn their backs.

And the man,

(The desperate gardener, in this case)

Is left with a decisive decision.

Accept the weeds as an occasional aquaintence.

Or betray the weeds,

(Who both suspect, and expect nothing)

By drawing his shiny spade,

Like a Holy Roman Senator,

Missing only a tunic that is only missing ancient  bloodstains,

And stab them in the back.

 As the tired soil,

Abundant with craters and drought,

Absorbs the newly introduced carbon,

(By the virtue of murder)

Not as a sacrifice,

But as a gift,

And with some last,

Immortal words,

He remembers them.

et tu, zizania?