Sky looks down with a start,
cry of a lark marks the thunder; spark!
Split bark, falling art.
Decaying wound, arboreal tomb.
River flows uphill back to nature’s womb,
only to fulfil the urge to kill
and clear up a little more room.
Is any among us truly ever alone?
Dying king, decaying throne,
surrounded by falling stone;
faceless, unknown, overgrown.
Arc of time like a spiral unwinds,
unravelled mind once sublime,
now passed its prime by a fine line.
An arrow quivers in flight,
shot in spite with godless might.
A time to fight, a time to die,
‘til under root we quietly lie.