Thinking Through The Trees

 In the central axis of my personal creation
There's always been a "you"
Between the mystic men of moot morality
And the corpse they beg for peace
I see the things you've shouted
Like footprints on the beach
I feel an empty-knowing
I run an empty-pace
And pant at the workbench of a hunchbacked henchmen
Mulling over half-made plans
I am the pretender
Lending toads the warts of begotten wisdom
Through the ash trees and burdock seeds, looking up
I am the defender
Of an odorous muck that seems
To mean so much to me