Standing Tall

A vacant space in the yard

forms the ground

holding an old oak tree.

Thick sturdy braches drape

lost

amidst seasons change.

The roots contract

the branches die

just a pool of blood upon the ground.

 

I look down

and see my reflection

turn to black

then to ash.

 

My feet

fluid

in the motion of my thoughts

melt

down

to my torso

then my head.

 

I rise

bloody

saturated

and form the tree

that I must be

to see me for me.

 

 

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