Withering wood winding whither I went
seldom signing straight I spent
the sum of summer's joy on winter's rent.
A plumed thrush sits perched upon a black bough
barren and bleeding bits of Earth endowed
by the allowing force that so allows.
Close and shallow into the vast darkness
of the forest oscillates the nexus
drowning the down-trodden deserters-us.
In the flittering spaces 'twixt the trees
scurry the skeletons of love's disease
wasted and worn away like crucified thieves.
Festooning fingers of doubt lowly lie
beneath the canopy of forlorn sighs:
"our life-light never graced the nighttime sky."
Does the plumed thrush recognize it is free?-
away from worlds of wanwood it can flee
but withering wood has got the best of me.
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