Vulgarly, among the irises of love,
there sprouts an ugly weed.

On humid, stinking summer nights
it pushes up its head.

It grasps and chokes the beauty out
spewing the entrails forth.

The ground is littered, where it grows,
with images of death.

Death skulking on a putrid afternoon
through beds of flowers.

The gardener would kill the weed,
but this cannot be done.

He hacks and hews with fork and spade
to no avail.

His back is broken and his strength
is all washed out.

In numberless forms the weed returns
to shatter through the earth.

Stay your hand, dear one, do not try
to kill the weed.

Remember that for evermore
the weed is ours.

Rory Hudson

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/among-the-irises-of-love/