Needle and thorn

Walk, before you die, among catbriar and pine. Drink their lofty dappled air.

A haze of vegetable steel. Twining vines, sharp points. To walk that path is to yield to its piercing embrace, enveloped, bound, penetrated.

I would, if I could, stand still. Let the questing soft climb enchain me. Become the heart of a swaying pillar of this bark-walled cathedral to the filtered sun. Be grasped caressed gently inexorably by sweet curling tendrils jade.

And my troubled turmoil rot, sink to loam, and feed the singing still forest mind.

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