one.
she tells me words i never
want to recite again. i don't
start sentences.
i become sentences.

two.
the nights pull me in.
it's fulfilling.
they tell me to wipe up the
poison and bury the cloth.

three.
a tree grows from the cloth.
it's leaves are sickeningly green.
something inside me wants
to cuts it down.

four.
i bite into the fruit it bears.
it tastes like warm pie.
it heals my wounds
as i live in fear.

five.
my hours become smiles.
i lumber deeper into the trunk.
fires don't die in there.

six.
i fall for a forest nymph.
she bathes in a river eight
acres away. the river i
bathe in is only an acre away.

seven.
a human is no a match for
a creature woven by nature.
the forest and the river blends.
i cut down the tree while
it's spirit converges.

eight.
my hands are stained with poison.
i flush it down a void. the darkness
replaces what has hitherto been empty.