Grown to hold the thoughts, the feelings, and the aches that weep for a shine, a shimmer. False promises that we would be stronger for it, pretending it all away. What we bear shows no matter how deep the roots rest, they twist and crawl against the surface. Secret to none except the pretender. To maintain and whither or unravel and grow
We are told the earth will take us back when our feet no longer press the dirt apart. The body tears the life from where it lays with rot. It is not by choice; the sickness weeps from its pores, wasting away all that passes and lies. Will I ever be laid to rest