Rings

Everything leaves its mark beneath the shell of the bark.

Don't stop staring blind at one tree,

meant to be walking through a wood.

In awe waiting for even a falling leaf,

this guilty fixation does you no good.

Turn head, eyes swivel back to centre,

while fresh life blossoms all around,

won't let go, and not for the better,

can't leave buried what's underground.

Pulp, bark or sap, ... all is wooden,

rotten branches suffocate your heart,

regret: yesterday is now all but nothing,

yet hold onto thorns to create more scars.

Rings in tree stumps belie their age,

and show all that they have lived,

you have become your own slave,

the one person you cannot forgive.

A ghost dances mesmerising waltzes,

giddying, but the ballroom won't rewind,

trees can be made into crosses,

just like all the ones you carry inside.