Underneath the branches of the old tree,
Rests a secret lost among their cultures.
Where once fruit landed by divine decree,
Now, only rot, guarded by the vultures.
We’re forced to love among atrocities.
Expensive failures, ever more severe.
Myths and childish impetuosities,
No hope for us, because we won’t cohere.
My woes began when the temptress touched me.
Despite her lust, the object of my prayers,
Pressed to bark, leaning against her gently,
I slay her quick, taking her unawares.
I know not why this life has had me scorned,
Tried to behave by established accord.
I see the masses, naked, unadorned,
Besides the greatest mask they can afford.
Her corpse rests beneath the tired sequoia.
I’ll remain, rooted in paranoia.