The world will still turn,

regardless

of if I want it to.

A spin on words,

and you might think

I'm a dead branch

fallen from a tree.

The apple tree, my dad will become.

Although not yet,

the words are stagnant

tightening around my soul

carving reality into my face.

A useless thought,

an unbearable one.

I fear I’ll rot

and dance with the maggots

until I’m soil.

One day meeting with my dad

becoming a tree myself

we’ll hold each others roots

like when we hug.

The type of warmth

I’ll always dream about

way past the inevitable

moment in time,

where my heart

and soul

will give out.