This forest of black fern, scraping thorn’d tree trunks
It all looks the same
Tearing at my flesh…ripping wounds upon my chest
Severing slowly
Pain merely a dashed figment of my stoic imagination
Sharp blades twist
Wandering for nights on end as days no longer exist
Getting nowhere fast
Frowning moss grows on the east side of sorrow
Dying north spins
As I hold in my hand this thing that still bleeds
Two parts, gaping
Seeking the perfect hiding spot in charcoal stone ash
Shadows fade desires
This is of no use to me, take it, I don’t want it anymore
It is broken
Rains soften this hell as I dig deeper into the sadness
Buried in teardrop mud
And I sit, amongst bramble and thistle spun chains
Waiting for the end….