life
is a quiet torture
and the scream of the trees
is silent and a million
colours, their love
weights them with their living
raging within, they still
but every cell a
frenzy, they do not move
but they are enemies;
and
even for the bones within
our febrile meat life
is a quiet torture, the blood
rinses them with remembrance
of their coming day, memory
awake in just one gray skeletal
semblance, for Nothing's lover
is the frame within us;
they know what comes to them,
the rest is just dust - however much
we murder, however much we
fuck, the bones take Nothingness
on trust
