Naught But Our Nature

naught but poisoned roots and decayed wood makes up my family tree

naught but acid in our xylums, fractured stems drop putrefied leaves

naught but withered patches of moss anchor themselves to blighted bark

naught but contaminated pollen falls to blades below in dark

naught but tainted grass proliferates nearby the rotted base

naught but parasitic vines to steal our sunlight, thus deface

naught but the vile grove we grow in, hampered by kin of our own

naught but our place to root is issue, otherwise, of perfect grown

naught but deathcaps and other killers stemmed from extant life remain

naught but the foulest skittering critters greet with even disdain

naught but the most defiled fillings satiate our diet's needs

naught but sour, bitter fruit with hateful cores stem from our seeds

naught but the sweetest, or luckiest, fruits stain the picking baskets

naught but the best at appearing ripe make it out the orchard still

naught but divine intervention that hasn't come stops them from being thrown to grow

back in the grove, as if a cage, all forced to wither against our will.