Log III: The Wall

Can you smell the forest, my dear?

Can you hear the wind pick up its scent

it’s rushing urgency, a soft lament

for all that lived and died this day

For the living, because they inch

closer to death, and for the dead

because they grow old.

They grow old with the stones,

with the stars in the firmament

with the wine in the cabin

of the fisherman who lives

on the outskirts of this realm

unaware of the powers that rule

day and night, addition and negation

he merely sees

a bigger catch or a hungry dinner

and the wine thinks

only of getting older still.

All of this is the world you do not see

of the time that swallows itself

and gushes inwards towards the boundaries of existence

of the time of the tree-lords where

every new leaf is a different branch

and every branch is a dead end

the quantum world unravels

in their mind, a woodpecker

pecking away at their very hearts

till the burden exceeds strength,

till the branches come crashing down

in a certain savage storm.

But you, my tireless friend

Pursuing a direction

perpendicular to these realities

protected by my cold unfeeling back

as I try not to look you in the eye

and gaze at the ends of the world.