Still water mirrors the trembling branches.
Fifty breaths of fresh air stings my lungs.
I am reminded by a voiceless light that I
remain bound to a paradisiacal wasteland.
It falls from a red moon, whispering comfort
in the clever way it colors the landscape.
I am the same as I was before, and this truth
is a testament to my own insecurities. With
the rise of sin comes the guise of pity. I seek
out those delirious patterns of love which I lost
in my youth. During a time before joy became
stained and was driven into the scarlet abyss of
a baptism pool – whose still waters now mirror
the twisted, trembling branches, and where
the fresh air hovering under a lunar sky
bites at my skin and stings my lungs.