Sunday, December 13, 2009


My mind began to churn,
with the association given to me
by someone I once knew:
Of lonely Man and lonesome tree;
of bitterness and disgust
and the nature of our ways.

When I see branches bare,
I think of skeletons and dust.
I think of washing clear
the hours buried deep in mud;
the slowly cycled breaths,
pushing out and pulling in
instead of being one
with the nature of our ways.

To be alive and seething hatred
for what I am one part of;
surely, hypocrisy or hegemony.
It must be another piece of the bleating love
proclaimed alongside dominance.
I think, instead, it is of my blood,
the blood of every memory
carved into our millennia.
And, unlike the naked trees,
who return as life unsheathed,
we will find our fate so feazed
at the glaring violence of our ways.

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