It swings from aching wood above the yard,
afloat, unbothered by an earthly weight;
a strain of creaks and moans leaves silence scarred,
as unreality unfurls and baits.
It seems to prosecute through nature’s reign,
green scales atop its olden, rotting skin;
the ropes are burrowed under, ever strained,
and swallowed like the ancient bones within.
It begs for my attention and acclaim,
with stretching tendrils pulling at my mind;
a vegetative, dominating aim,
assimilating with mankind.
It slows against the wind and points a claw,
one beastly hand among the stolen stash;
“A stag — a pair of antlers for your flaws,”
it says, “so join, despite your mortal ash.”
It hosts a world of its invited kin,
and I, though beckoned, fear the ghastly being;
my Mother sees it, looking past its sin,
and says, “It seems the Mother of all things.”
Contact Logan Roscoe at [email protected]