those branches
claw at the clouds like
black lightning
useless, yet
i can't blame them
for i would try the same
scratching my way out
if my roots had fallen
asleep, see
the ground
looks like home
looks like
a tombstone
but the sky, oh
how she sings of
mercy

watching
our rope swing tree
waste to
woodpecker city
awaiting
the glorious day
that sycamore crashes
down
and smashes this
jail cell of a
house
back to bricks

i'm ready to stop
growing up now