The forest of my heart is wilting. No fluid of passion pumps vigor in stems. Old sap turns foul, tapped over again. One by one, leaves plunk to the ground, not crisp of age, but limp of drought. How strange this fall that never turns spring. Blue roof don’t melt to turn leaves green. Of a darker hue, should you cut in the skin. Once hungry for food, in sickness it sits. At the sight of the rot, you point to its root. Feeding it poison, a new crop takes foot. On beds of graves, at your demand, no fuss, all colors, at your command, in all but one color. Auto me gen
VII