Known not as seed but seedling
Etched in photographic memories
That sear white hot in absent flesh. 
The body, too barren to hold onto
What little life it longed to give love,
Still scarred grievously in self-loathing.

Small roots, that wished themselves
To dig happiness from within fear, 
Found the ground soil to be lacking. 
But the sunlight would soon set, 
Bringing unfathomable darkness
And cold typhoons of destruction. 

To compensate for the deficiency, 
The sapling clung to a cracking pot
That recklessly scratched at itself. 
Soon the chippings stacked higher
Than the edges had ever reached
And the contents were strewn away. 

Wretched sorrow bled for hours
Until the mud was thick as paste, 
Coating the future in a tacky glaze
Of tormented jealousy and longing.
No fruits or labors could bare bark
Thick enough to be unfeeling. 

Other trees grew in orchards of poison, 
Their branches reaching outward, 
Upward to the glistening sun. 
How spiritless must this grove be
To have only produced heartache
In place of a vibrant linden tree. 

Written to a picture prompt from the former Facebook group: Stardust Poetry