Love Is A Fictitious Weed Poem by Mark Heathcote

Love is a fictitious weed we think will grow anywhere
without water or care, it will climb alongside the Eiger railway,
it will flourish across deserts taking root in mountain bedrock.
Love is a fictitious weed we think will grow without love;
that it abounds in our hearts, and its seeds need no aftercare.

That-we-possess-it and therefore, it should live on through us.
Love is a fictitious weed we think will grow and ever multiply,
but we are not fertile pastures or abandoned railway yards
we are what we are. We are what we are.
Self-neglecting pampered Hybrid tea roses cut off in a jar,
defending our tiny spaces with bloodied thorns to scar.