Leafless branches obscure my vision.

They block out so much more than

The frilly obscenities that blossom

From flora of the fowl.

These empty branches,

The straightest that seem

To stab and plunder into

The thick thudding of my inner clockwork.

All ticking ceases, all ticking starts,

It’s continuous in its termination.

The start is the same as the beginning,

One lap that fails to complete itself

Is the most finest piece of work

That is perfect enough to bring tears,

To bring a sun that burns so bright

That the blisters on your soul and heart

Erode out, swollen with throbbing

Veins that pump

The arteries of my throat full of feeling

That blocks all breathing.

Death you aren’t.