Dead Oaks

Some days I wish it was over,

Some days I wish I could see,

The light at the end of the tunnel that speeds,

So slowly away from me.

For I am the wick of the candle,

I am the stillborn oak tree,

I am the fragmented hopes on the wind,

Life’s seed pods of dying disease.

I am the dirt in the cradle,

I am the stone set in earth,

I am the foghorn that blares to the seas,

The loneliness drowned in the memories.

I am the dust on the altar,

I am the collar and leash,

I am grass that is rolled beneath pavement,

The morning dew that will now never be.

I am the hole within darkness,

I am the stars that bleed light,

I am the endless in finite fade things,

And a white witch’s Turkish Delight.

I am the fell sway in the flower,

I am the bend in its stem,

I am the pollen in ashen blown breeze,

And I am the world without bees.

Then I am the remnant of spectral life,

And I am the shadows that see,

That I am the pillar in hurricane squall,

And then I am nothing at all.