Fear of the madman is fear of yourself.
Part of a series of poems for my novel, Sunnygrove.

Scarred bark and crooked limbs
Tossed by frantic winter wind
Extend toward the sky, pious, pleading
No one knows that you are bleeding

The sap of hope has run dry
But still they cling and still they
Echoes of the ailing brain

On the inside, you suffer
On the outside, so elegant and proud
Standing in the courtyard like stately giants
Watching us

Burnt roots deprived of sun
The scent of soot and

Rotten fruits imbibed by worms
Fall to the ground
As the day is done
We are the worms

No one noticed as
One by one
Your branches
Until you were armless

They took what was left of you
Leaving the rest as dust
Cut me down if you must
And make room for the others
To grow

Fear of the madman is fear of

When you pulled out that splinter
The mirror showed someone new
Someone who is and isn't you

People moved on and forgot
Your corpses mar the land now
And never rot

The End

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