Becoming Bark

Come to the point where I am on an old roof top, sharing a cigarette with you, wishing for the grandfather tree. The age I’ve found myself in is one where I reminisce over what use to be. There’s a place inside me that feels like the ashtray of an old writer; I’m looking for something spooky to remember. Those doe eyes nibble the apple core left by the orchard, while I watch from a porch. And the branches are sketched into a cloud of feathers, scaring the deer away, while a black cat wipes its lives off on my shoulder. Remaining alive. Will the scarecrow become a profit again? Or am I left to watch the corn fall over, and be stepped into a pulp. Or will I be left to a forest with a nervous girlfriend, who can’t hear the breaking sticks on the mountainside. Sitting by myself in a rolling creek makes the water rinse over my pants, and clean my legs. Noticing there is an eye carved into the side of a tree trunk, through the bark, I stumble to walk over to it. Tripping here, falling between, eventually there. Finding myself here after so, so long. Admiring you, closer eventually deeper, I light another cigarette and burn the cool air. Resting my back against the one eyed being, I leave the cigarette to burn between the branches so you’d remember me.