The Tree in the Garden: Poetry

I've huddled here
in this threadbare jacket
of Ego,
clinging to mirages
of thought to buffer

Now the gales let loose
and even this last illusion shatters
like so many scattered leaves,
 a mirror breaking apart:
I'm left naked 
in the Garden

Standing here completely bare
with not even enough hair to braid
my spirit is exposed,
bruised and weary,
for I've not had time
to heal from all these battles
beneath the crimson sun

I want to run but
I find my feet impacted,
they sink into the ground
and refuse to move
To my horror, the dirt
rises up my legs
until there is no skin at
all save for particles of earth

I want to spread my wings
but I find that they've retracted,
hardening into sticks that
grow upward in uneven grooves
The dirt up to my chest now,
my arms are nothing more than pegs
sticking out of a soil encasement
like something giving birth

There is nothing I can do
but stand still as it takes hold,
covering my entire body as if
it had never been

And when I finally open eyes
with irises of silver-gold,
I am unmoved by good and evil,
unchanged in the brashness of the wind
Human no longer,
I am once more a fruit-filled tree...

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