Whispering Pines

Breathe softly into my lungs
Moans intermingled with apathy, this placid lust
I am scarcely more than whispering pines and aches
Hold me, and I take some semblance of a shape

I was not always this way
Formless, hapless, on the edge of disarray
Crawl inside of this consuming emptiness and dreg
Find a trinket, something not unworthy of love

The rumbling of this stomach, shrinking in starvation
The bumbling of this heart, unsure of its convictions
A wilful misstep in indigo-colored fields
Would a thing mean so much if no one mourned it?

Beckons this humble home of little oddities
Of ritualistic mourning, unsaid curses, and broken faith
A shrine, still haunted to this day
The sage within withered and decayed

Each tenderness shunned, turned away
Offered no forbidden apple, or seed of pomegranate
My love,  I am pines that whisper, aches that ache
Un-held, I waste away, a verse at a time, an undoing a day

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