Kismet

As the naked truth of the day breaks through the night, summer begins to breathe its brightest moments. So for now, I am recalling these words from another place, below an Elm tree. At one time it was struck by lightning, but it gripped the soil with such powerful roots, you could dream they ran through the soul of the earth. Tall, grey and blackened by fierce battles; it was a castle made of wood. From there you could see the world and dream how it would end. The crippled arms splintered under each fierce summer, but still they held me in its last moments to heaven. It is gone now, long past its time.

So in turn, I cling to your hand, your soul, like a half remembered moment. I am hanging by my nails, almost like being on a cross, which is only a tree after all. The only difference being it is stripped bare with its heart torn out. The qualitative change of purpose is to inflict pain instead of love. Remember, Judas hung himself from a tree (can you name its colour? I saw it on your lips, somewhere). Only this cross grips the soil with powerful roots, that run through the soul of the earth, into hell. Sometimes I have no nails only blood; it tears my heart, my soul. Your tree crucifies me every night and when I remember the phantom of your kiss, it cuts me like a knife.

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