The fig tree shrivels and bends under my weight.
My fingers move nimbly, but not enough --
for the branches I cling to are no more than ash,
and the gold in my pockets turn into stone.
My hands bare, scraped ******
burnt red, cinder black.
The ground embraces me
like an old
friend.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
The fig tree shrivels and bends under my weight.
My fingers move nimbly, but not enough --
for the branches I cling to are no more than ash,
and the gold in my pockets turn into stone.
My hands bare, scraped ******
burnt red, cinder black.
The ground embraces me
like an old
friend.
