Untoward Growth

 Oh,

unlovely,

untoward growth!

What will become of thee?

Will you be pruned,

or mulched,

or both?

Will

you be

torn obliviously

off in bits by passersby

or painted in the style of Klee

(no, not the homonym of ‘clay,’

the one who rhymes with 'me')?

Or will you, like the rest of us,

go on however long you

can, then simply
cease to

be?

.