Thrown into existence, my words
writhe in the throes
of their own growing pains,
sinking like stones
somewhere in the midway
of catharsis and precision,
half-knowing they're alive
and scared half-to-death
of falling like a tree
with no one around,
of never making a sound
before crashing to
the forest floor
where toadstools eat
away their meat
and ivy clamors
at their bones,
blank tombstones for
an unmarked grave
where no one ever goes;
but that kind of silence
is just a bad dream,
they'll come to know,
for all breath is immortal
even if the growing's slow.