each branch I snap spills
accusations of every broken neck I ever wished
so out of politeness I bow my head
to show the dotted line,
the hemp tattooed severance knot;
that grace, which allows my hands
such time to forsake the face
of saved history
when everyday swings
the way of an ending that wont be changed
the grass, as always, redder
on that other side of the green line
where helping hands split heads as snakes
mutated under the weight of progress
without in a world where, to corroborate my worth,
to validate the myth of this existence,
I must drink my tea with lemon now
read my books through glass
on the back of an intimate enlargement
where the withering wilt remains
hidden below a flooded view
viable yet crude
I should choose a quieter voice
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