Roots, like hearts are hidden,

under where people blindly step.

The fruit on the tree is made,

nourished, and sacrificed for

by that, which is unseen.

Not until the soil is dead,

and all the water is drank, dry,

does the fruit tree tip over,

and the broken heart leak,

and shows what layed silent

under the feet of fools

a inverted crown of roots,

snap,

an abused highway of veins,

strangles,

the dying servant

kissed  by fire,

turned to ash,

before the empty sockets,

of starving eyes.

…

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert