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The Point
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The trees are shaking, from your insolence.
They stagger, choking, their breath on the wind.
It makes me question, it makes me recant.
Where have we been, and where have we gone.
When’s the point when we say all is lost.
Is lost.
Swimming through the wreckage, under the tide.
Out to sea, there to die.
It makes me blister, it makes me forget.
Where we’ve been, and where we’ve yet.
When’s the point we say it’s all due to cost,
We’ve already lost.
Douse the hull, douse your head.
Thoughts are sinking, an anchor to the bed.
It makes me wither, it makes me sweat.
Or maybe the cauldron’s too close, instead.
When’s the point, when the point is all we’ve got.
We’ll rot.
