~ or ~
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
ROOT AND BRANCH
I never thought that I would be
Moldering beneath a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against what used to be my chest;
A tree who sends its roots down deep
To draw on my eternal sleep;
And up above its branches grow
Nourished by my limbs below.
Poems are made by food like me.
Who might end up feeding a tree.