In the District of Columbia

 

From behind the whispers not quite distant, not quite near, between the breath and the echo, the rumors swell— multiplying like spores set loose on a careless wind.

Fed by half-truths, watered by earnest hands, they sprout in the dark where no one meant them to grow.

Soon the garden is overrun. What began as concern - twists into bramble, and the weeds of hurt fester unchecked— their roots tangled deep in the soil of despair.

 

 

 You can't make this stuff up, folks.