There was a branch on a tree – not particularly popular with the other branches – not a horizontal branch for the hanging of a tyre-swing, nor a vertical branch for the sunshine quest; nor a particularly hirsute branch for the gathering harvest of light – but a sturdy branch nonetheless; a branch that balanced the tree nicely on the steep angled slope; a branch that thumbed its nose at the rigours of evolution; a singular branch whose purpose was yet to be fulfilled.
The branch is you; the branch is not you.
It foretells the music of stringed instruments; the moulding of wood with water glue and skill cello bass violin.
And this music of future sorrow fills the heart with exquisite ache.
This nihilistic joy; this shedding of burdens long carried.
And from the green light ahead; the branch that beckons to the peace of surrender where concerns turn to insects that flutter at the light, their negligee wings question the eye of all myopic solutions.
And in the soldier’s mind-eye as he storms the bastion of senseless and apocalyptic cause - the gates of hell’s construction and heaven’s delusion – is a vision of the corpse seen through the green-glass radar; a lens for time’s tracking black hand.
And the chains that hang there in this chamber of verse; this speculative glass; hang for all possibility, at the behest of that soldier, that singular cutting edge on the cusp of time’s wave.
The branch is you; the branch is not you.
It foretells the music of stringed instruments; the moulding of wood with water glue and skill cello bass violin.
And this music of future sorrow fills the heart with exquisite ache.
This nihilistic joy; this shedding of burdens long carried.
And from the green light ahead; the branch that beckons to the peace of surrender where concerns turn to insects that flutter at the light, their negligee wings question the eye of all myopic solutions.
And in the soldier’s mind-eye as he storms the bastion of senseless and apocalyptic cause - the gates of hell’s construction and heaven’s delusion – is a vision of the corpse seen through the green-glass radar; a lens for time’s tracking black hand.
And the chains that hang there in this chamber of verse; this speculative glass; hang for all possibility, at the behest of that soldier, that singular cutting edge on the cusp of time’s wave.
1 comment:
For i think there for i am .I think if i was a tree with a balance so grand and a soldier came and cut of my balancing lemb many of nature would morn the loss of the balance.To have lost a resting place the shade to expose the heart of the tree and make it weak .O so sad to be a tree and watch them come slowly cut me apart.
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