It was a level ride until I disembarked at twenty-five
On a spotless field beyond the port;
With my bag full but weightless on my shoulders,
I marched to the terminal, squandering no strides.
At twenty-six, the field bloomed
With forests and gardens of skeletons;
My bag, half-empty now, cut deeper into my shoulders,
Sapping my pace, tying my strides.
Bivouacking at twenty-seven, my opaque sight
Measured the field’s length, breadth,
Depth of the bony roots stabbing the core
Of the forests and gardens.
The field, weighted at twenty-eight, revealed
Bony roots breaching the core beneath
And the mantle above, gutting the seeds.
From this, my bag turned limp, yet denser than a mountain,
So I marched no further, shrunk from the terminal,
Left the disemboweled seeds to rot at twenty-nine.
