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descent

Christie Wong

Decaying leaves split my pores

Flowers blooming, like freedom calling.

Leaves call gently into the sky,

Thanking the heavens for its existence,

Plucked one by one by name

In a summoned silence.

 

We step through the brush,

Fires blazing in autumn all around

Landing by a mycelium ladder on a stump,

Romantic notions siphon under our feet

Channelling through living decay.

 

Purgatory is life,

Blinking with impressionist eyes.

Where destination is found in this bowl, encircling a cone of silence that runs--

Golden threads--

 

We close our eyes to breathe freeness,

To embrace the cartography on our lips,

Delineating the wood stumps like symphonic strings on a crescendo.