The forest reaches down
With its gnarled fingers
And opens up my chest
To leaf through
My book of blood.
An antique album
Of mind albumen
Holding photographs
Of figures ghastly,
The receptacle of
The sadness of time
And its transmutation.
I shone myself
Onto the branches above
And they drank my cold fire.
Stone, this pale body,
An alien gift for the journey
I poured my spirit balm into.
The still air a mycelial web,
My ideas ætherial acorns
Inside a cloudy bosom
Yet sinking all the same
Into the friction of decay
& the strange incertitude
Of the earth's free will
Whose jaws harvest my grain.
The filament of a grimy bulb
Or enduring ivory—
I do not even exist except
For in these paltry words.
@d-pend