To take or not to take.

The sky's too dark to

Unlove the colours found therein.

Each is precious

And tempting to the eye;

A fruit of truth

Which may creep in

To pain the heart, 

The images of perfect gold.

But I'm not fruit.

I cannot rot, for 

Mildew sleeps apart

From all eyes but mine,

Who write their own tales

In the madness of lines and boxes.

Lives are but gnarling branches, 

Some pruned, some wild - 

Some interlocked.

All reaching into starry skies, 

They amass by half-drops and

Sordid bodies, 

Barely skimming this straggled

Trauma of stirring wombs 

And roots.

Affectations will be whispered

Til the force that boils

Wipes them white.

Stilettos on the pavement, 

Like the glaring sun, 

Cure the memories of 

Glittering sadness.