I am not a wooden indian
or a rock
this heart lives
and though i'd kill it if i could
i will age with it
and we will ossify
and harden to a cinder
together
me and this heart
we are not wooden
but rather
like earth
trod
sodden
and flowing slowly

song of youth


there were paintings in the trees
and poems in the water
the flowers held songs
and all the world was a stage

every piece of light was life.

We grow like trees
Layers of self covering wounds
experience
personality
understanding of reality

layers
the old ways sometimes
so deep we can't feel them
only hints of an old love
memories of a wordlview
like wounds in a tree