Grove

These paths are lined with your twisted-root intentions,
growing up into twisted trees.
They grasp empty hands at astrological signs,
and shadow me.

The night breathes fullness into shadows
and steals the hanging dust from the light,
leaching everything from gold to white.

I don't know if this is peace within your mind, this stillness,
or a slow and steady rot from inside- oaks that survived
fire, only this way to die.