Never freer, than the moving wood on
bitter breeze,

once sweet.

Air, which claimed a forest,
contracts flesh    still.

Only bone
shall run from here;
Blood and guts
surrendered;

Sphallolalia
-left at the edge of day-
in sunlights' slanting strobes.

And there...                         
              always there
                             (stays hidden)              
                  amongst wisps of mist;

Wistful, weary,
supping dew from
far reaching branches.
                                            Feet bare...

Hair tangled
from the escape of night,
in shaded visions.

**Yet,
sometimes,
there is just the
wood & no trees.

I think the world's greatest sin
is wearing a fake grin.
My, what a world we live in.

I am alone,
Like a structureless prose,
A dark waste of space,
A wilting rose.

I am alive,
But they'd rather I die,
Buried deep underground,
Never to be found.