the natural takes flight and screams severance
But I, cowardly still
Hangs swinging on a weakened branch
Proffering excuses against resilience
Plotting reasons to cut the stem;
It is not about the sun gaining entrance
But the procreation of tendrils of thoughts
But the gardener came
Trimming first, the leaves.
Then the trunks and roots
All that is left is a naked space
no shade for lovers now
no robust greens and succulent tendrils
Only anthills.
All that’s Left is nothingness
And the longing for words to come!
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