I quiver gently, these proud useless minor days, dead
tree still standing wickedly, too dumb to fall, the
sap of life upright by chance alone, each breeze a
potent ached for force of quick release, but no, I
stand, I stand my ground, decay before your very eyes,
no wisdom left to sparkle this dead day, a victim only
of my own sweet human lies, a criminal in my waste of
others’ time, their fervent secondary thoughts.  Not
here, not gone, too quick to bury, a furtive prisoner
in my own polluted shell, I whisper sigh hiccup my
visionary role of yesterday, a monument to passion
spent, a rift in precious time, a wreck too savage to
restore, a tombstone softly standing.

Passion Contents