How is it
From under the willow tree
Where the ground’s dirt has perished flesh and bones
Among other irretrievables, there is no light.
I wanted to be an indefatigable Spartan.
I did not know hanging bodies left imitable shadows
Where elevation brought more than content:
The grain caustic, even the moon unnoticeable,
The Willow’s tendrils hover like a saint in prayer and
Cover all of my body’s flaws.
I wanted to be an unstoppable Spartan.
I did not know a hide out would shape a life, would
Let skin coil around bones of ash and stop a heart
Of blood and diligence.
But the pleading is the downfall that is the hanging
Leaves, the unseeing boughs that form the willow like
The sun and moon are one now and I am unaware.
The curtain has fallen.