Heavy drapes that want to be drawn.
Yet I ignore them.
The darkness feeds from it in colors.
Colors of red and orange.
Standing wasn't a clever idea of mine.
It drives the nails deeper and deeper,
into knots of my wooden head.
And the sight is not a sight.
What I see is not what I find in thought.
Colors that mesh into soup.
Chicken soup?
What is this fascination
with such a flightless bird?
A hand woven rope, rough and ragged.
It tugs at each end, of each branch.
The tree will fall soon, despite the battle;
and no one will be around to hear it.
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