One of My Own

Thirty-seven years breathing
Ten wanting
Some crying.
A sullen tree, its roots outstretched
To the parched boundaries of the terrestrial.
Foregoing murky drink for purity sought
Traversing forests of knotted trunks in sour wind
Aloof to the whispers in the canopy.
Connected to light, unyielding
Accepting of any scene that the stage may showcase
An agnostic's faith in the director
No set, no script, no cast.
Smiling saplings sacrificed?
Perhaps writhing sprouts eschewed
Decomposing dreams provide nourishment forward.
Alone at night
Thoughts of the morrow's rays baking sweets
With the scent of a sterile canyon
And the taste of its echoes

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