They used to enable my feeding
always craving, always eating,
a feel of a rhythm of a beating
in turn —
what a beautiful evening.

Thieving to many,
surviving on empty,
while refill never works
always spilling, always work,
never filling.

Enough necks to chop off
with the wind at my back;
cut one down, a couple grow
an evergreen glow
that barely shows
without the night
that surrounds and gnarls
at the light within these walls,
hollow with remorse,
a fleeting choice.