I. Tree

today is still today until tomorrow and the sky is gray this ink is pink and all I feel are chills down my severed spine leaving me immobile below the bare branches breaking at intervals to free themselves from the slowly dying trunk of a rotten tree masquerading as a stronghold and guardian of children’s not so little treasures

an arrowhead and two weathered stones and a fragile cornhusk dolly so large in heart lie in a damp hole hidden from all but the girl and boy roaming the woods primeval along the stream of icy life so painful and alive and painfully killing everything alive that dares to try and survive

the breeze is light and gives soft kisses to tips of noses and hands held tight, aging little youths a thousand years or more with each passing second and gnaws at their insides like the ruthless death pawing at the inside of trees waiting for the time when nothing can stand alone any longer and all crutches have vanished and in this moment of weakness someone else finds strength through unnatural evil of the worst kind and schadenfreude set deep in the soul rotting it away like the ruthless death pawing at the inside of trees

and so goes death and so goes life and so goes miserable joy and sweet sorrow of the highest kinds and so sinks the remorse and melancholy contained in the sky so gray and the pink ink and my straight spine which bends and flexes as I move through midnight woods and beyond.

One thought on “I. Tree

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