Divine is the fruit borne the tree of life many search to reap
Their harvest oftentimes succeeds in determent, or benefit
A shame, the wasted potential of the fallen fruit
Decomposing nevertheless
The glutinous roots giggle from the tickle
of the corpse’s pious essence
Harmony often takes chaotic form
Imagine the root’s awkward beauty;
branches stretched
like The Creation of Adam
With the hope of blooming above the
Chablis clouds
Often drunk from the guise of power
Philistine stunt growth in the delay of the inevitable rather than face death with unwavering solemnity
Every journey begins with an end in disguise
Immerse in the unknown
Root in the abstract
Float in the grounded
Imagination
The plane I exorcise my weapon of creation and bite the fruit borne of the tree
Like those who came before
I succeed
Like those who came before
I fall
To those who are of nature, she is a kind mother
To those who know the father, he is all
As the roots above so the branches below