By: Daniel Edward Moore | Posted on: December 2018
Consider them seditious seeds,
tiny, hybrid hallucinatory shells
holding the best and worst of you
dark in the trunk of a rotten man
whose love for a woman flooded
the ground with the atrocity of trees.
Isn’t this how prophecy’s roots,
gossip their way up veiny bark
till finally writing winter’s memoir
on every sick and dying leaf
grieving the branches of you?
Tell me they’re not true. Me, a lover of lies.