Cutting Cords - a poem.

I've heard he’s been running loose for a few days now, crouching into sofa beds and wooded areas,
trying to find just any place to sleep for the night.
I wonder if he was forced against his will to swallow that first seed
Water it down with sugar and caffeine, and everything else that’s not too sweet.
Did he cry when the first buds of life began to sprout in the pits of his stomach.
Did he cringe as the weeds began to grow in his own personal garden of Saturday nights alone in the dark with no gardener to trim the overgrown hedges.
It eats me alive wondering if he silently prayed someone would open the door just when the vines were overflowing through arteries and the hippocampus’ and I wonder which flower smothered which body part first, the heart or the brain,
which pill is the one we should blame?
Did the leaves cloud his vision?
Did he mistake daffodils for little white pills?
flower pots for heroin shots?
A vivacious terrain for a bag of cocaine?
I’m told that sunlight helps flowers grow
but isn’t the darkness what got him here in the first place?
Studies show that spring is the saddest season of the year, leaving a laundry list of memories on winter’s doorstep, never to return again.
Did his garden begin one spring evening, bursting green through his dark grey walls, tearing him away from us all?
Green is the color of jealousy and balance
was he jealous of those who learned to survive without fertilizer swelling up in their tiny crevices?
Or did he learn to balance out the good and the bad in one sitting
wearing his arrangement like a boutonniere on his shirt, disguised as drool falling down?
Why doesn’t he see it now?
When I was younger, I tried to sneak into his nursery,
tried to catch glimpses of the roses before they were ready.
Maybe I soiled those flowers, caused them to wilt.
and my younger self should have known better.
That a boy of fifteen who was bursting at the seams, should have just avoided the wildflowers altogether
and of every trip to that nursery, that it the one I remember the most.
Did I almost find his seeds?
Should I have let the good flowers grow more?
Was that the day he first felt the weeds
at the bottom of his soul
did that day force the addiction to grow?