The promise of seeds.

He’s in my monad.
This means we fall from the same tree;
Roll down the same roots,
And we germinate in the same air.
But what he doesn’t get is to where he spread;
His tendrils caress an antithetical force —
A messy mat of heat and fabric —
That makes him sweet and sour
And which reads him as such fondly.
Whereas I sit a lichen to my rock,
Otherwise the same as him, yet —
So much a spade I am magnetized to them,
Virtually ignored by even the hungriest animal.

Untitled_Artwork 77 copy


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s