Poem

roots undo themselves like love
in the disorderly subterrains of the world
as the trees grow older and older and older 
out of the ocean of root and dirt
firming their grip on the cold earth
ever tangling like two hearts in bondage -
one for love, one for deceit - love, deceit -
and with every breath the crown takes
the bark shivers, the twigs cower like abused children,
and every horizon it leaps forthwith through
is another scar on its picturesqueness;
so, the woodlands, autumnal, are mirrors to men;
shit is getting harsher, and colder, and darker,
by minutes seeming like years lost in aeonic stasis
sweeping slowly, mistlike, over caverns, cliffs, moors
as the hours pass eerily
like stupid faces on other sides of windows;
collapsed psyches pass through the portal
whirling with the absence of poverty and asceticism;
the stillness of the forests disrupt
with the absurdity of being
and even the trees now
cry hopeless tears and their leaves fall sadly;
the countenance of the greenest ocean
became death;
all the growth of life, grew backwards
along with all culture and men
backing
with a barrel to the neck
into the darkness
of the certainty of entropy