a canopy of trees smothers overhead,
unable to muffle the anguish
of my tortured soul.
"is this the shadowy realm of insanity?",
i ask the darkness.
my only answer is the sound of my sweat,
dripping into crimson pools of blood.
i visited here before,
long ago before the sun
melted the icicles.
it was my home.
i'd lay in the dried, decaying leaves
and the pain would wash over me,
envelope me
like a funeral shroud.
i'd whisper into the black frosty air
like a lunatic in a padded cell.
i must've known i'd be back.
every prophet,
every martyr,
every child
has passed through this wood
at one time or another.
alone i weep in my silent garden,
waiting for the world to crucify me.

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