The Bramble

 The desecrated remains

of autumn fall to the ground

as my hope falls to the unknown.

 Look to the gardens-

look to the weeds, the vines,

mangled and thriving and flowing and wild.

 The weeds are as all things begin and all

things end- 

freely entangled to the whims of nature,

to the unending cycle of life upon death endlessly dancing, self cannibalising

in circles of raw untethered depravity.

 All life, great nations, rulers, peasants, 

villains, self proclaimed gods, 

cycle through repeated errors.

 Each soul believing their strife

to be unique when in fact strife is

nothing but the unequivocal fact of nature

which is that all breathing things must perish

of their own undoing;

 To reap the next lives which can then repeat and carry on the unabating spiral of the cold hearted mistress which is the universe. 

 For all things remain forever ensnared in the

heart of bramble.