your skin is made of cosmic foliage —
voice that is mellifluous to my ears.
beneath your pulchritudinous image,
you're engulfed in pain for years.

i know you want to go back to those halcyon days.
love, you were irenic to your chaotic mind
because you know no one stays
and loneliness you only find.

you look up at a gloomy night sky
and smiled at a solitary coruscant star.
telling your heartfelt miseries to a butterfly —
you're a walking, breathing and talking scar.

i inscribe this poem to a quaintrelle
whose undeniably sturdy yet frail.

My depression had become hypostatized.
What had once been an apathetic disquiet
That trapped me in a chasm of my own despondent mind
Like a listless anesthetic
Was now a minatory wraith.
Haunting my every heartbeat and permeating my sanity,
Feasting on my solicitude and
Lusting for any coruscant yet scarce threads of faith
That held my hope together.
Like an avarice.

This assault on my being enervated me.

Paralysis.
Coupled with sporadic bursts of frenzied nerves.
When I felt that insidious gnawing on my humanity,
Sending spasms along sinew.
Brutally awakening this cadaver from the endless malaise.

I used to dance in the wind, but never like the others.
Branches heavy,
Floriferous with empathy,
Roots delving deep to drink in the truth,
Trunk dense to defy the gale of calamity.
Lost inside the thicket of deciduous oak,
I danced against the others,
Against my brothers.

Accursed willow.
I wept as the winds tore at my blossoms
And the worms nibbled at my feet.
My river went dry.
My knees went weak.

Infernal rampike.
I mused bitterly that if a tree should ever fall in the forest,
Not even his brothers would give audience to his demise.