A Sestina: Black Trees

May 3, 2011
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Your thoughts turn to air as they sweep through trees,
twisting and rubbing against the night of black.
Your hands shake, your fingers go numb, and your
goes through
the distant, dreary oak. Wandering,

lost and scared, you wonder
when the light will shine, but your
vision escapes through
the trees,
and you think about how much insanity is left in your mind,
but the stars continue to be swallowed in black.

Crickets and snakes fumble in the leaves, black
dots form in your manifested trees,
and the wonders
of the world disappear out of mind,
out of thought, and through
those trees, you’ve lost your

childhood innocence. It was never yours,
really. Always his. Out of the black
night, your scream could never go through
the woods. It ricocheted off the broken trees.
But still it wanders
around the hollows of my mind.

My mind
is black.
Those trees
aren’t imaginary, your
Hands are still real, and they wander

What? It’s blank and quiet. This mind of
mine—or yours?—is wandering. Through tonight, this
night of your black victory, you are the trees to me.

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