i’m in the same place where i wrote a poem about yew where eye compared the dawning sky to your aura of light but i forgot yew can fall just as much for potential instead of for who yew are. eye saw what i wanted to see. yew bristles around me sap drizzling thru my wounds words of red berry yew dripped onto me like a cloying poison. i choked sweet in Faerie hungering for more which i cannot taste. hollow bark hollow branches reaching for my spirit(s) as eye cross onto another plane of existence where yew cannot follow. eye am hardly free in this place childhood memories under the yew tree making virulent memories laurels & wreaths wrap around me eye am guided? eye am saved? by yew? following yew across Hell’s rivers. the Styx looked back at me in the eyes of myself. Acheron stung like the needle of yew thistles. The Lethe offered me cleanliness but as eye cannot forgive i do not deserve to forget. Phlegethon scorned me like yew jealousy, the Cocytus bade me deafness thru my own wails & eye ran these yew trial me, seeing if eye cling like a cicada to your bark screaming and shedding skin in graphic rebirth of the self against yew. eye run from the truth but i have yew to thank. guide me threw steer my path correction course.
the axe finally lands. yew fall. eye use yew bark to burn away what remains of you & eye.
the yew tree is a symbol of death & is often used in necromancy
In the sinful garden I was aroused, My toenails dug into Earth as the yew to the moon Crouched with legs lambent of the blue glow.
I clawed and sank into the abyss the edifice allowed. Violet sky and clouds abloom Crawling towards its moleskin bound and sewn
Ginger stained and fig darkened Our assemblage of sentiments sank Into the fire-molten pit below.
Further into the soil beneath, pressed with bark and-- Ages of space that left some pages blank. Your sharp mountains of ink through soil began to show.
Alas, I beheld in its fullness, a body which beat I stopped to harken A tremor my arms, hands, and fingers began to make With a gust of wind, brush of limbs, the dust away was blown.
Cuticles gushing red as I clung to our words, but away with a night lark. After that short mirage, off my knees and into the sky I flew My heart bare and untamed, as the soul from the skin under the moon.
Tulip in a Grove, alone in Spring, Like young girl's hearts, it's a fragile thing. Too bright for its dark abode: A brilliant corner on a lonely road. Petals, like shields, rise up as guards. For all that lives wants to part The Tulip from its Spring.
But look, there, in the greenish gloom, There are other colors in this furtive room. In twos or threes, they stand apart, Each guarding their own and another’s heart. Bright heads like maiden’s reticent mane. Each shines for the other’s gain. For Summer comes too soon.
Tulips began appearing in our old garden, nearly hidden between two old Yew trees, after my mother raked away years of dead leaves. How they shone in the gloom beneath the dark evergreens!
This heaviness in my chest is a grim room. One cherished by a fool, something that will never come to light. It is a constantly dim room, never lightening, only strangled into night. There is a lone rocking chair in the room, cast out of yew. My madness here is aplenty and my silver thoughts a few. My heart is made of gray rotten walls and deadly nightshade. Maybe one day, when a certain light passes though the curtains, I will walk out the door.