It was always I, Who combed your fallen branches off the sidewalk. Made piles of sense from twitching fingers, Who blamed the dizzy sky. Impossible as dirt, I accepted your love under my nails. Attempting to revive a shattering pulse, Keen as a whistle to live. Petit à petit you forgot your deformities Cast a shadow that you’ve credited to your name Your roots are clotted, knotted with voracity Speaking out of turn, Tu dit: “Non, merci” Among others, you have lived a ripe old age. Your sap has thickened with lust, Dribbling, nonsense I’m afraid I cannot trust. Your dismal bark begs my hands to react, But I am through with loving this world.
I rather like this piece. It's quite vivid, and I can relate to it well. Also, the added french(?) gives it a broadened, more universal feeling.
