Leafless branches obscure my vision.
They block out so much more than
The frilly obscenities that blossom
From flora of the fowl.
These empty branches,
The straightest that seem
To stab and plunder into
The thick thudding of my inner clockwork.
All ticking ceases, all ticking starts,
It’s continuous in its termination.
The start is the same as the beginning,
One lap that fails to complete itself
Is the most finest piece of work
That is perfect enough to bring tears,
To bring a sun that burns so bright
That the blisters on your soul and heart
Erode out, swollen with throbbing
Veins that pump
The arteries of my throat full of feeling
That blocks all breathing.
Death you aren’t.