Friday, March 6, 2015

Eighty Generations

The trunks are narrow, almost
Spindly despite their ages.
Chances are, of course, you won't
Make it. Magical union

In a dappled world in which
Oxygen is, essential
To you, a mere byproduct.
Needles, leaves sigh in the breeze.

I'd decline to go into
Those woods, except I've no choice.
Every root is a research,
Every twig a fruity bet.

Chances are you're on the ground,
Too close to survive,
One of the countless billions
Dropped in parental umbrage.

We are all blind in the dark
And the dark defines our lives.
No, not quite. You feel the warmth
I've prophesied, the light high,

Higher than the blossoming
Canopy from which we fell.
I want to embrace your faith
Our shadows are ellipses.

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