Autochthon by Obits
Hands and knees grasping earth
The shining rust
The tumult fades,
The silence dreams of nothing
The tree is as old as age,
Branches grow, arcane fractals
Whispering to you of gentle vacuum and release
Rest your weary brow in laughing, sighing boughs,
Soothe your fevers in the pulsing bark and rot,
And dream of nothing.
Drown your sorrows in murmurings,
That fissure from gnarled growths and red earth,
"The taker-away of pain...
... and the giver-back of beauty!"
Cast your eyes into your eyes,
As veins and roots become one,
As worlds spill from inchoate thoughts,
As you fade.