Writer Between Worlds

On the ground, insects toil away. 
Above, the forest is dying. 

Gnarled and unnaturally twisted, it scratches the horizon with skeletal claws; 
combs it like it’s a skein in need of untangling. 

On the ground, insects toil away. 
Above, the forest is dying. 

Between them, people walk, setting dogs on each another; 
people walk with other people on leashes. 

Their footsteps tack the sky with the earth, 
The unspoken blue with the blindness. 

What good is it to leave, knowing that I’ll return? 
And what good is it to return, since sooner or later I’ll leave? 

Everything passes. It’s in the nature of things. 
Everything new will soon be old. 

On the ground, insects toil away. 
Above, the forest is dying.