devoted to the tree of whispering allurement
I fit figures of arboreal grace along ridges of bark
enamored with silent coercion
I fight what’s wretched
whelve your bitter tasting stoicism
As if I already know of the flying fragments
hammered out from beneath me
As if I already feel puncturing, crevices
carved from my frozen core
As if I already submit to wills of withering souls
of solemnity
and a fate spent
forever in glancing retrospect
at gnarly detachments
jagged in crooked prongs
splintering towards the sun
the fibers of what once was