The prognosis is post-mortem,
shivering trees, falling leaves
turning color, covering
footsteps shuffling toward a
bright, bloody sunset.
I've decayed tenfold in
the shifting cyclical.
The brightest to brown,
to pale frost and rebirth,
to the apple dangling
from mother's extended bough.
New life to grow in this rotted host.
To be picked and admired,
fashioned into beautiful
bright crowns for elated
children to dazzle and fixate.
My dying wish to instill
some sense of wonder in
wildly rooted saplings
sprouting from their
mother's bosom.
Only then will I know
what it is to live.
