It was not the trunk
But the stretching roots.

All right, it was partially the trunk.

He still hasn't figured it out.
He thinks that he has.

He was aching
and I was leading him astray.

There's a cemetery down the street
from my house, I used to walk there
It felt like a breath of fresh air.
                             Is that morbid?

"Here is where our bodies will come.
Here is where our bodies will go.
It's just a matter of time."

The clouds have been branching out.
They now cover such a vast belt
of the sky, so there are always shadows.

Here is ours. Here is our shadow--

He was impossibly great,
And I just hated myself.

That was the beginning
And it'll probably be the end, too.
Such waves of danger do we swim through.

Any attempt at predicting the weather
Becomes instead an excuse
to keep ourselves, clouds at dusk,
from birthing a downpour.

The sun will continue to tell people
How they should feel.
And my mother still yields to conflict,
but everyone seems to do that here.

How is there not a larger collective fear
of lying beside someone for eternity?
Headstones almost identical
Decaying bodies almost gone.

But I suppose it's natural.