I used to think I made the branches scrape the sky
Grasping hands outstretched, pushing fingers from fingers from fingers
Reduced to filaments thin and ethereal, lengthened to caress the shadows of a drooping sun

Now I know that it’s just a pretty picture
A Rorschach blot of a crouching tree older than my apprehensions
Writhing arms, twisting unfathomable shapes toward a light it knows as its father

Creating the pleasant illusion of a silhouette in forced perspective
Interposed between my small eyes and a heaven much further than my fragile ego would surmise
In the cold of an expanding universe, made colder and more distant with every revolution

I hide in the shadow of that ancient growth till the cold eye of the sun is replaced by the hazy and forgiving light of a forgetful moon
And pray for my brothers, the dreamers and miscreants, the lost and misled
That they may never outgrow the eggshell armor of their aggrandizing illusions


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