it reaped the embodiment of practice
teetering on steep deprivation
from that chastising realization
to retain an enigma spilling
all over the porcelain floor
laced with veins of blue inked vines
a ringing not of pouring water
splashing all over the carefully polished stone
with that of dust motes made gold
from the shafting sun,
it was the feeling of loss
it was the sensation of pain
left alone in the far dark corner
swept to the far corner of a home
yet the water brought it back to the light
and all of a sudden
fear didn't hesitate from
the lone, lone fig tree
which grew and overtook
the construction of man,
crushing the porcelain
and splintering woods against stone
this lone fig tree of perfect,
indestructible bark
caressed pain and loss,
saying "I will not move away"
and embraced pain and loss
so then the once perfect bark
crackled and became streaked
with scars and gruesome knots
yet the fig tree cared not,
remaining still, knowing vulnerability
and becoming compassionate
suffused into beaming rays
knowing utter peace needed
a place to rest without being rejected
and thus became the trees
scarred to mourn with sleeping incapacities