in the weighted hours 
alone
in solemn care 
with the vaporous stems of cold gray leaves 
dead but vibrant 
like a moss breathing 
along the musk of aged bark 
I've contained a breath 
with mallet and symbol 
striking away 
in the monotone of flaccid existence 
though I've travailed in the winter now 
my ways have pounced along 
the cerebral branches 
of more than Grandma's Oaks 
I've grown backwards in a fulsome world 
staging innocence with greed for position
though position is merely a crystal ball 
wading in anger 
in unison
with the brunt of nihilistic 
possibilities 
made real