Lives are carved intricate as

the fall of leaves from the baobab tree.

Into the cuts of her pregnant body, 

a fresh green hue dulls to be forgot

lives are hemmed on time.

The breach of day into the next

To propagate the stem of a year

in another, as counterpart eras 

that no not how to figure

Through memory’s fading gaze

we play under the maze of her shade

bent to age, some stay and some leave

but nobody every breaks free.

If we are all trapped,

to grow slow by a cold flame

preserving us in our quietude,

then sit under this old tree,

sit and wait for me-

I will come with the rain

I will come with death

I will come to you-

In death, as a birth

upon the shallow waters

of a tide that exists in what it gives 

and takes.

I will brush the leaves of this tree

until each dew drop,

each life falls into one

and we see not in fragments

but as an endless stream undone

to paint passed our contrived horizon.

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