Poem -

So Many Misnomers

Perfect, Wasted, and Time

So Many Misnomers

Tall trees round me.
Strong unimpeded sunshine and aggressive fall breezes.


These are the sights that I see on East 46th St.

Overgrown and delightfully untamed it has reclaimed its domain and remains supremely wild and filled with game.

I know green trees much better than I know concrete.
Grass won't bloody my knees but it has pricked my feet.

A few times.

Nature has its pride, it dies from inside, preparing for a rebirth or evolving a design.

I remember that oak that ate our stop sign. It was rusted and ignored so nature chose to envelope and bind.

Nothing can waste time.

Time is a bystander and waste is in the eye of the beholder holding on to control swinging from vine to vine.

And nothing is nothing, know thing and none other like stumps that keep growing and erupt after cutting.

Upscale space cells are just trees who refused to pine after a life of loving devotion and ultimate closeness.

Moving mountains and draining oceans to settle much closer to warmth and spectrum rays peculiar to  starshine gnosis.

It's only a tree swaying in a fall breeze backlit by sunshine being observed by my aged eyes that remember a time when that tree looked much bigger and my mind thought of climbing. 


.... Growth of man-age is landscape clearing and cutting naturals down.

Uncoiling ecosystems and engineering faux sublime.

Building structures that begin to decay before after birth connections are witnessed and signed.

To be reclaimed by wild game and omniscient  trees that refrain from the sooth-saying misfortune-tellers of signature time.

Out of tune with the chorus as one verse slips from mind and the concert keeps moving all our nothings through extravagant pantomime.

I wonder how the tree sees me?
Would my short span even catch its eye?

A bystander and a waist overgrown round me.

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