Quietly, I slipped into a vale.
Where the ash stands stagnant as my locket memories, and the gravity of those peel reeds back from an ancient spruce I watered long ago.
Though he embowed, wounds rewarded the vehement flesh with bark. I ******* soul’s decay and sip a silent vice to subside the grief, dip a whetted shoot into ruby waters.
On that welkin, I rubricate the evening mist in scarlet poetry  as spindles of bough became lines on a paper sky, sketching and swelling with childlike-visionary.
Until I stood on the brink of a parapet in a dance with death. I realized there weren’t any shapes all along, but only clouds.