Crimson Marks

Winter’s hoar…frost.. has bled the maples Crimson, marks the torn throat of morn. Summer’s sullen forays have scared the natural blush of Fall. Would the wood recover from the toxic fumes of man? Radiant the sun which bombs the atmosphere, a blight of cancer upon the uncloaked skin… Mutant and mutating man warring harbinger of doom. Where sand and soil and microbes had cleansed the refuse of man waits… clogging the arteries of bipeds overflowing into the roots of forest Unarmed Rooted Clinging to the seed of an apothecary life. Feeding on the vials unturned draining into the Fall finery a mottled military camouflage sickly green, to burnt brown emerges. And all that’s left of life bleeds with the maple. Crimson, marks the torn throat of morn.