Brachiation

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.