My snow cap whines for coal and ash
My bones harmonize with hinges devoid of grease
My Everests are made of wood and stone
My lungs play a staccato rhythm with the wind.

My weathered face has become my biographer
Lines telling of my woe
Lines carved by precious joy
Tear troughs handwoven by stress.

Like a leafless tree bent by time I stand
Near hollowed out, devoid of gifts I stand
Even as the wind sings a dirge for my soul
I wonder if in eternal rest I'll still be like that tree
A haunting echo of transient beauty.

J.O.E


 

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