On this road, does the black tarnish smell of death
Clasped in tree hands, the clothes of those once organic
In the high tops of the willows, hangs a lonely suicide
The air desolate of any breath, only carbon monoxide clarity

A world that has hung its head, and has eaten all that did not see
Now do beasts roam, filled with acidic humanity
Gnashing teeth at all moving, setting fire to any green
This march of sorrow, has crossed the plains and mountains

From the wes the California skyline, ablaze like a victorian candle; a majestic sight cut with screams
In the northwest, the great  trees fallen in Washington, titans of once something pure

In the the Great Lakes, a pestilence carved out with rib bones
In the south, peanut fields and farmland mere toys to a malicious force
in the Delta, the swamps all gasping for air, choking in silence
In New England, the cities and metropolitan philosophy

A match burnt away in a gale of hatred
On this road, does the ash begin to pile
The cries of help, become ambient noise
And the trembling hands, soon become frozen

My arms begin to grow twigs,

                  my eyes turning to bark

The legs below become hollow trunks,

                                          my mind lessening in reason

I shake the hands, of all the pines
As they see me down the line
The green roads turning beige
My eyes covered in a viscous haze

My heart is setting the table
Inside my chest for the craddle
Of little leeches and mouths to feed
And abandon all my hope and creed

But the trees are looking down
And they sigh with heavy frowns
At the state I am going to end
The bone of my back I’ll bend

But the skies are lavender and blue
And my feet seem to always go through
The thickest mud, the sludge and raptor teeth
While the knife is on my throat, and I hold the sheath

A specter watching by, no advice
With the abyss reading, the mourning concise
As I walk this path alone
Knowing of not any home

Such a fragile moment in time we are, too much caught up in things too below the threshold of reason

We each have a knife to our throats waiting to cut, so we might as well try to be happy

It’s nearly impossible, like seeing the shadows of the fox in a foggy forest

But try we must, and give that knife a bite from our teeth, and spit at its holder

I can hear the coo of the morning dove, echo in the sunlight

Refracting against the dew of green tombs and graves

It searches for its lost love, in such desperation

In my sadness I hope it finds that love

The streets are being laced with kerosene, men with limbs made of matches
Begin to walk in a march
The curtains are becoming lighter, ashes to the wind
The cries of those unaware, become a song to the ether
Hands are held tighter, kisses become more sincere
Eyes become more forward, words more clear
The sky is more orange, like a Monet painting
Beautiful, such a sight to admire
As giants of ash topple the buildings
Love becomes more real, more scarce
As lives become lost
The gutters become full
With the breath of lovers
A hush in the chaos