more bullshit about trees and dead things

If not today the willow speaks,

it’s tales to widows, speak,

 a madness wondered,

branches over thee,

 

 once we watch her,

 here we find her,

 all but sparkling sinew,

 

 and praise, praise

would we

with this light on our brains made,

 praise the dust as it lands,

pieces of each other,

but only harder to swallow.

 

Mother hands grip those eyes of old, we speak.

Laughter poured out of pitchers that never held

Grace, forward we may march to death of our

Selves, only watching for the next version

 

And these hands, we come together

To tear each other apart

but what do we do,

When we no longer bleed?