Plastic Bones of a Living Tree

Grievances bold

as the river I call home.

Chiding at the road,

I can't remember to cry on--

shout...

but how can I live you down?

These streams of broken ties

and lies of moments

meant to be asleep.

How much more

can I take, when

the current's vast

and out of reach?

To beg of the rivers I be,

letting the reeds fall;

helplessly;

tearing near roots

of this plastic tree.

I can never call you home again.

And here I roam, I float

waiting, wondering

how will I ever,

damn if I never

take the current,

washing up at my feet...