Cull
The gods frown upon those who let their rage cull the young
To them, the blood of the youth is sweet, like a forbidden fruit
The same fruit that caused most all young to be born in blood and surrounded by tears of agony
The same fruit that ripped apart the garden from the inside out
The fruit that caused the rage of man in the first place
But they don't consume the fruit
Their teeth don't break the skin
Their tongues don't taste the flesh
Not yet
They just wish to pluck it from it's home on the tree
To shake the leaves off and snap branches
They crush every part of that old tree under their boots, making a toxic wine that not even the most desperate amongst them would drink
They want to feel the cool juices slip between their fingers
It's sweet in scent, but it does nothing to calm them
It only furthers the rage
The rage that made them pluck the fruits, shake the leaves loose, and snap the branches
The rage that caused them to lick their fingers once the deed is done, curiosity winning out
The rage that had them eyeing the next tree
The hunger that starts to consume them
The curiosity of "what if the next tree tastes better"
None of the fruits were ready to fall
They never were
They all held tight to the branches, their stems refusing to break despite all of the twisting and tugging
Their skins still soft and pale
But the rage of man was enough
The too small fruits were crushed in his hands as they were ripped from their mother far too soon
Their sweet juices drip down his hand, spalttering onto the ground
The other trees can only look as one of their own is defiled
How her young are culled before her eyes
How their juices spill
How their seeds stick to the hand of that man
The other trees can't do anything to stop it
They won't
"It's not my fruit they're destroying. It's not my leaves and branches. Not my bark or sap."
It's never them
Until it is
Until the man comes again, fueled by rage and hunger
Hands grip at the tools to help pluck the fruits
Pruners
Pickers
Catchers
Baskets
The classroom doors are ripped open
The leaves are shaken
The teacher is shot as they scream and try to defend the children
The branches are snapped
The children are plucked off one by one
Just like fruit
Their blood flows across the classroom floors, mixing into a toxic wine that not event the most desperate amongst them would drink
Warm, sticky juice seeps through his shoes
It's putrid in scent, but their stomachs don't churn with disgust
He yearns for the warmth
The rage remains
The hunger persists
The figure on the wall stares at man with disgust
They weren't ready to be plucked
Maybe the next classroom will have better "fruit" to "pick"
Maybe they'll be more fun
Maybe it will finally diminish their rage
Maybe the holy figure on the wall won't be so judgemental
Guns
Bullets
Tear Gas
Bombs
Maybe the next orchard will have better trees
Better fruit
