And first I smelled it
With crushing fingers passed
A striking sunset ablaze
And then I saw it
With eyes closed
A memory of love
(Those tumaltous times)
Out of wood comes blood
Frozen tears
The shy clouds hid
The old gods said
“What could make this be”
But I didn’t write this poem for me
Somewhere a star burst
I wrote it for the lonely
and the wrought
the tiresome fighter
(Much like myself
Standing, marching over lava and air
(a shipwreck)
          An impossible tree growing
          twisted, and free
Holding up its greener leaves
with no water for years.