Fealty

Doing nothing, for no 
obvious reason, engaging 
the travails of self-watch, I do 
not want to confront the propensity 
of withdrawl. 

The elder pain blooms, again 
like Ipomea. Will not stand the 
bright sun’s gaze, I will sail― 
out between the blackened 
teeth and stammering 
words. 

It sucks, the female snake. 
The phloem, the flora. A tree kills 
its own birds. Cannot ambulate 
tender promises. A stricture 
chokes the poem. Double- 
edged truth lifts the weight. 

Moon knows the art of giving. 
Sends the blood tears.