Misaligned

On this very night
twisted roots combine.
On this very night
the black roots climb.
Convulsing
their tarnished boots rubbing
carcass creased at the edges
connoting a structure that
stays in one place
without movement or stillness.
Eyelets sinking in
like vagrant lost souls
waiting for a train
that will never come.
On this very night
there’s a disruption of the sort
of confusion wrapped in cobwebs
waiting to dismember when a voice calls out
and a shadow of curly auburn hair
snakes into the crevices

Of the mind you are trying to save
Of the heart you are trying to rehabilitate
Of the worry you are trying to suppress

On this very night

The only sound is aching
The only taste is bitterness
The only touch is empty air

cold night air to swallow you up
into the depths of
disillusionment and disappointment
festering like an ancient city
crumbling from the might of the harrows.