There is a tree inside
When I breathe it grows
I find its leaves at the foot of my bed
Drifting towards the edge of the pools
of my eyes
When I slept last night
My arms became branches
There was a bird’s nest in
the crook of my elbow
The downy feathers under my head
I had scrambled eggs this morning.
I am the sound that blackness makes
When it hits the pages of your thoughts.
It is recorded without your knowledge,
Without your help or guidance,
Without your approval. Such as it is
One day you will thank me.
Until then I am just a sound.
Just a hum. Murmur.
Like your head was upon your mother’s chest
And your eardrum captures
The reverberations of her heartbeat
Deep beneath her rib cage –
But she is gone, gone, gone.
And has been for years.
I am the sound in the blackness
That heightens your thoughts.
Perhaps it will return! The plague!
Your ignorance is what I have left to hold
In the darkness; the sound of blood,
Surging through organs to bring life.
You curse my lifeblood while gazing
Into the shallow sea of my eyes –
This cage, you hear the echoes.
But it is dead, dead, dead.
And has been for months. Yes, me.
But I am alive -- like her.
With your curses you spring hope.
My hope is what you aim to smother.
But fear not, I will not drown. Not now.
Not for you or for us, but for It.
I am the sound that your heart makes
When the blackness has left your pages
And your thoughts turn again to Blood
And It will surge through your hope organ
And play a tune so soft
That it will revive us
And we will live, live, live
