I am the axe that split my heart’s own tree.

I quarry my own heart,
My storm strips
bark from tree.
I find no hand so cruel
as the one
that is me.

My verse bleeds like the forest in a storm,
Each word a hollow bone where joy took form;

The rivers moan with things I cannot name,
And shadows clutch the ashes of my flame;

Loss reigns
eternal,
cruel
and coldly warm.