Bits of broken tombstone surround the tree of life, jagged little reminders that all monuments someday crack and crumble.
A speck-like spider falls from the tree of life onto my pale hand. Before it has a chance to find its own way home, I send it to the land of wet grasses on a gust of self-generated wind. I have never cared for spiders, however minuscule.
I count no less than twenty shards of gravestone and wonder if the tree of life is to blame. The tree of life, grown so large from all the now-quiet bodies if hovers over while under the bone-infested ground, the roots of life seek water.
I spy no faces upon the tree of life’s cracked and ornery skin. I only spy black ants and sick-yellow lichens.
Are the faces then underground with the roots or perhaps higher up on the trunk, well above eye-level, spied only by wandering drones or a telescoping eye from a nearby window? Are the faces then in the branches, obscured by oblique leaves?
Perhaps the tree of life has no faces at all…
Perhaps the tree of life is just a dis-envisaged voice repeating so slowly, “So happy now you’ve gone.”
Shh, I have been waiting long hours,
under an emerging sky full of stories,
waiting for you to close your eyes and crawl through this red room,
crawl through while feeling your bent body’s weird weight as a tingling pressure upon your weak wrists,
crawl through with a switchblade clenched
between yellowed teeth,
stained by tea and lemon crumpets,
stained by the yellow blood of the Sun,
stained by the stains
of the yellow room
you crawled through
in your yellow youth
Shh, Shh, I have been waiting such long hours,
such long and winding hours,
like a patient waiting for a diagnosis,
just like a patient
waiting for a death note,
of every living, pulsing thing.