Breeze of tattered voices
flowing over a willing body,
snagging on its luminous hairs,
goblet hands failing to hold water
as a river of blood points to the sky
as the only escape.

Twigs that swivel on aged skin.
Light that seethes from a mottled trunk.
Branches yielding planetary fruit
worlds thrashing their eons
in sorrow of destruction
cresting blooms that ride its fire
blinking to be seen among eyes
that never move, glued fast
to a dead prime mover.