Twisted thorns in a tree ridden of
fire, of leaves and of a black bird
so often perched in the jail of its
wooden twine.

Like fire in a wave he is trapped
and no longer able to fly into the airs
he once knew as only freedom and without singe.

I do not seek to save him—
the fire grows and the waves
only kill it but a few times in its life.
The nature of nature, the hate and
persecution of love so lost,
long and far away from the tips
of my rotting fingers.

He is close.

I can unwrap him if I like.
I can place my cold fingers
around his neck and ask him
why he must always be at the base
of my brain. Why he must include me
in his lonely cell while I sleep.
But as nature sees it as it will,
he can never escape the prison that
confines him.
Inside of me, beside me,
and so very lost within me,

he will stay.