We are the forest of the dead.
We are crimson willow trees.
We are weeping in the woods,
Hanging bodies like chandeliers

Leaves,
Crumble,
Deep in.
Humus,

Body becomes soil.
Bleeding the forest.

Cold
Wet

Moss undergrowth
Drag down the bones

The beetles form inside,
Leave larval forms behind,
Above our heads they swing,
The wind blows bleeding trees.

The machinery of death.

Brings the forest life,

From suicide.