Tree of chains

Our fates are flowers on a tree of iron chains

Forged with each coming of spring. The seeds blown

In the wind, the red rust stains the earth, blood

Testimonials of the smiling eye that withers

A wrinkly hello and a feeble embrace that

Smothers the final good-bye

Our lives are the roots of the tree with iron chains

A temporarily mighty breath of organic anarchy made flesh

Looking in the mirror to contemplate it’s minuscule being

Its fragility, the only spark of love in a universe made void

Uncaring, unchanging, speeding to its own final cry of the

Thorn bird. Our song, unheard but by us, the bellowing of chain-branches

While new flowers fall on the ground

With no sound.

G.

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