The trees go on for miles, like pillars in a long-forgotten hall
where dwindling monarchs, softly stepping,
gather cobweb vestments about their spiderling bones and
stare with shuffling, empty eyes past mould and crumbling edifice
of former, failing, flickering glories.
The man who walks the endless stair
counts vertebrae with long and feeling fingers,
as bravely glistening facets of jewels that he would rend unto their essence.
The man forever wandering there finds no nepenthe
in his ever-spiraling motions.
In shiverings and in gales of breeze there comes a method of intent
that carries in its wake green leaves, like breathing stones,
to place a tremor in the hinges of the eyes,
born of the warmth of unspoken words,
and trace initials on the wind.
The trees go on for miles, and the monarch folds his bones
to rest within the doorframes of the many rooms,
and sits in silence and forgotten tears upon the cheeks of a mask,
for to hear the subtle movements of the hinges as they sway.