The Living Tree

The Himalayas at this time

Were not beautiful to behold,

Before my heart pumped red

And my eyes let go.

In the roots of my living tree

I am a small boy scorned

By the many masks of man,

The whorls of its bark

Line my feet and hands.

I took a cup of last days milk

And left for the badlands

Where I could find some space

To breath in death,

Move back to my old ways

Wear a wild boar skull

And taste the bitter nature of love.


2 Responses so far »

  1. 1

    This is an amazing poem. And the tree is beautiful.

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