Hiding Trees
When I was no more than twenty-some or less
The volume of the architecture slapped my senses,
Entranced by gargoyle sculpture
Peering in-out on the windows,
Letting go the real world, favouring a darker glass.
In a room of tobacco exhale fraught with stress,
I made my lies and loosed their references,
And sat before three vultures,
Patient warlock-likened fellows,
Smacking lips at my intelligence, some feast to come to pass.
My eyes strayed to the trees out in the gardens,
Their majesty, longevity filled my vision,
Shedding leaves and flailing branches,
Creaking boughs and knotted sockets,
Living lifetimes in excess of any inmate on the line.
Their words brought forth the phrase: "I beg your pardon?"
My thoughts upon my answers dripped precision,
I replied and took my chances,
Fingers crossed inside my pockets,
Hiding trees within a forest suits me fine.
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