He is dead
arms broken,
blood oozing like sap from his belly button:
a knoll of decomposing flesh somewhere near his heart
pumps infection, leaks it:
sticky sweetness.
 
Killers hide like voices, attack from the inside,
words are fearless fungi
corroding one's core,
wanting more, waiting for
a chance.
A split moment in which
he does not move forward,
a split moment to spread the disease, the death,
to kill the rest
 
It starts at the heart and tears him apart.
 
In the span of it all one tree is so small,
limbs fall as birds call
and not one person hears, not one person near
A tiny world unfurled, uncurled
and not one person sees, not one person grieves
 
When I die, I guarantee,
I will not die a heartless tree.

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This is a reflection on the lowest of my chemically imbalanced lows.

updated Aug 29 '10 by faith