bobbing on clotted grief
the forests of the world drift away
slowly, relentlessly

(inevitably)

leaving crumbs of dried sap
for the lone traveller willing to see
into the grey mists of old
into the
(land destined to be forgotten)

the neon sun of human fixations has
shrivelled the threads of green and red
into deserts so vast and dry
that even Life seems unable to trace
the path it is meant to follow

stirred by these elemental palpitations
we are left with shivers and demineralized tears
cold relics in the museum where we lay mummified,
objects of tragic adoration, motionlessly living our lives
because we are too lost in the masks we cannot break
because we have learned rather to tear
than to read the poem that was spun for us many eons ago
by that visiting gesture of mystery whose
invitation we have long lost
in the ravenous hurricane of our indifference

where oceans once blossomed
its mysterious depths have slowly been exhaled
into stale puddles of riven black,
early shadows of the ravens that are coming
to spill a last red dawn
before gushing out the world rivers of blood
currently filling the beats of our heart
until we leave this world and remain
the question we could not answer