I’ve witnessed addiction yank at the roots of a family tree.I’ve listened to slurred words that stung and blared violently enough to roam as a wildfirenesting inside weak hollow trees,blazing from the inside outuntil ash is simply a remnant of its destruction.until that ash is resorted to an urn in my grandmother’s bedroom. The residue of failure left in the tainted territorieswill inspire growth.New trees will claw into the soil,holding hostage the birth of unwilling lifethat will replace all that was anicent. Hopeful downpours will part from cloudsand nourish these oaks until their branches are tall enough to stroke its feeding hands up high. But one day, conflicting bolts,both loving and scornful,well-meaning and selfish,will impose upon the grounds with spiteful strikes.Trails of heat will glare at history for its repetitionas the flames crackle to the rhythm of addictionand await a new cycle of devastation.