THE WOEFUL ORCHARD
2024
Therein are the spoils of sorrow,
the fruit of hardship,
where wind snaps and prevails.
Death whispers a hollow secret
and I still shiver
at the thought
of my last breath—
To die the death not bodily
is a gift from Heaven.
And every tree becomes alike,
and moments cease to matter,
and matter matters not,
and fathom this issue
and you’ll see a warped
and bowing chasm
reeling from it’s color,
screeching from it’s thought.
But here I sit in an orchard
I always dreamt of pruning, of owning.
Tis as I saw it, veritably.
It looks perfectly alike to that I foresaw,
but nothing could foretell unto me
the way I now feel.
