The tall elm writhes and sighs at your touch a gasp from spreading boughs as your unseen fingers find places never known by the lesser elements she scatters her leaves which turn and trip a terpsichorean flight of wayward grace upon your breath.
Naked, she shivers, though not with fears, save the fear you will not grace her with another kiss.
Night bird untamed by the hand of man she holds no court for his unnatural laws and commandments Night bird primal woman first sister obey but yourself that man may find his truth now you have flown. Night Bird Eden’s undoing was not of your art for you are not artifice nor folly that part was played by part of man.
I write in voices other than my own this cadence comes from ghosts within whose turn of word and way is other to me no long, strong hanging consonants no slipped or drooping syllables I try so very hard to hide and yet … … if they were to inhabit my lines, I would not sound like me, the me who writes in voices other than my own
at the end of the world a man paints on grains of rice as the endless ocean gently falls beyond the last horizon waving farewell in silver blue goodbyes below the driftwood piers
at the end of the world a saxophone plays the saddest call to a million seagulls overhead their refrains heard not as melody but an expectant call to arms soon the night will drown the day
at the end of the world a balloon shaped like a heart in silvered blood flies to the heavens an epistle undesired one of loss and sadness now that joy is lost from unsteady young fingers the coloured lamps begin to fade.
at the end of the world, darkness comes but I know not troubles for this is not the end of the world as tomorrow brings creation…..
so spins my mind in darkened woods damp in the rains of long ago underfoot the undergrowth allows no steady thoughts, nor should as here is time still as it was before we stood to contemplate all that exists beyond our fates and questioned the world and its cause these trees grow wise without our mind to be that which we are or not they have remained as we’ve forgot their silence pleads as bleak reminder we were their sacred progeny now grown and lost eternally
there grew a tree, inside a tree what a sight it was to see around new life the dead stood guard protection from the untoward vagaries of the years to be where this tree inside a tree would from calamity’s intent, bent to befall his brethren, could safely look to seasons long as cathedral to the song of birds and beasts among its boughs purely as sometime, somehow had a seed fortuitously fell from a tree into a tree.