they cut down all of the trees, the
bushes, the crawling ivy and
delicately curling sinews of
grass and time. the birds
are calling to each other,
calling to us, looking for
their homes. i am still-seeking
a space: a quiet-green
carapace to call my own, to
borrow in this brief
breath of time. who needs
a throne when you have been
given all of the vast-purple
riches of the universe?
lunachik 