becoming fields of swaying razors.
Dock leaves turn away in shame,
permitting nettle gangs to rule.
Branches weave themselves together,
contorting the pathway into knots.
Even the stream, usually so gentle,
screams vile curses as it cascades.
What are you doing here, the forest
asks, after everything you’ve done?
Prompt was “Blades of grass” From Lemondaisypoetry on Instagram and I immediately went for a bad pun, then built the rest from there