It's all rot-wood.
Puke moss poured all down trunks
of grown oaks.
Here the trees drink too much,
Boughs split and twist downward,
Spiraling closer to their birthplace,
Pine lines receding further every day.
The wind itself sighs in a drunken stupor,
You can smell the ferment on its breath;
Decay.
Puke moss poured all down trunks
of grown oaks.
Here the trees drink too much,
Boughs split and twist downward,
Spiraling closer to their birthplace,
Pine lines receding further every day.
The wind itself sighs in a drunken stupor,
You can smell the ferment on its breath;
Decay.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
HPRGSuperFan
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