Further and Further

Further and further I seem

To drift away from life, and inside

I feel myself grow cold, bare

and exposed, standing

like the deciduous tree,

dark and plain against cold white snow.

 

 I cannot pretend

that I never

struggled to hold onto that which

once burned within me, blazing

like firelight.

 

It wasn't stripped away.

Rather, I let it go,

little by little, just as the autumn tree

slowly sheds its vibrant leaves.

 

So spare yourself please;

I've already tried to explain:

 

This kind of emptiness consumes

me by my own

will; you cannot

save me with words or gestures of

genuine affection.

 

There is no cure for me, since, after all,

a rotting tree cannot blossom again.