Spelling Without Letters

The love of my life.
I keep myself on the page,
waiting for it to turn.
Easily smothered yet clung to the trunk.
Prone to dendrophilia.
I’m not very specific about the trees that I fall in love with.
With people there is always a pretense.
Always obeying archetypes.
With two feet in the grave already, I can become a tree.
What you will say will not be heard.
There is no dream high enough to lift me from the doom of living,
but that is why I let the music invade my spirit;
to feel in balance with emotive flaying.
The bark being forced through my pores.
While a person wakes me daily, and can look me in the eye.
I am endeared to be with them, but evoked by a certain unsteadiness.
Only sometimes it is specific.
And others, I realize how apt I am to be a willow.
Go from me, hollow pathos,
burning sensation of restlessness,
or become the branches that I need to survive.

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Published by

errorattic

Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

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