prognosis

i stand alone under the fig tree

bathed in patchwork shadow, the mosaic

of flies humming in my ears

a libation;

for miles there was but the sands

and this refuge, a lonely fig tree

an iambic confection at times an oracle

yet others, quietly eroded

by time;

i contemplate its parables.

firstly, the barren limbs in her final act

then bitter umbrage of the fallen

too long delayed

until they rotted before the tombs of those

mindless flies;

which is the better death

to live a life unfulfilled, empty

knowledgeable in a way that a child is kind

(that is to say

thoughtless, toothless)

meaning to do good

like whistling that echoes, until it doesn’t

or,

to be plagued by the truth

that all roads lead to somewhere, yet

once forsaken, will never again be found

and so, you stand

as i stand

cloaked in dream-like shadow, the requiem

of the flies interrupting somber thought

of obscurity;

and so on,

the figs fall, natural-like

what could have been oozing

bulbous bloody sacks beneath our toes

soaking the dirt.

---

a study of trees, may be the secret to life.