Distant roots lie severed across the earth, As these broken branches decay in each other’s embrace, This sense of memory taking you by the hand through vague glimpses of forgotten conversations & strange photographs, & these hot white bullets painted the canvas that leaked my shadow unto this liquid surface, But I ponder who were they beyond this veil? & the axes blade is driven into the tree.... While year after year these faces fall like flies. For it seems few run side by side into eternity with this wild pack. Their veins warm solely for the hunt, & the axes blade is driven into the tree once more... Sap draining from its opened wound. Its once sturdy trunk tilting towards the fallen foliage of forests forgotten, & how the huntsmen only seem to appear at banquets & feasts. While some just drift like ghosts into the golden woods, buried as that strangers voice, the one you never knew. That bursting seed that broke you through, & these ink blotted characters will fill in the lines they never bothered to gaze into. That shattered mirror trying to piece itself together into a portrait of calm seas & cloudless skies, but that rusty ax is numb to sensation. Driving one final blow into this aging trees murmuring heart, & now there it lies soundless, As the snarling coyotes prowl around its fallen body, but cry not weeping willow for it was only a theater of mirrors in which your charms so merrily entertained.