The Cold Premonition Of A Bleeding Tree

In a valley of
supernal peace
stood a lone tree
of crooked beauty,

no petals no buds
no moss no chirps
ever escaped
it's stagnant
pitiful atrophy,

never kissed by any
rays of a warm sun
vacuous perennial withering
in its own eternal winter
weather plagued never
felt any kind touch,

a frozen raindrop hangs
from a broken branch
twirling to the libretto
of the winds swirling howl,

some what odd
since these be
the dog days
of summer,

covering it's cracked
dry rind surface
obsidian nectar
trickles from within
claret ulterior streams,

in this oscillating icicle
I view my dismembered chassis
twined and barbed to
an inverted swarthy timber
my predetermined death
rotating in this glaciated
disco ball of Yahweh's tear.

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