Note to Self

Internal monologue, to self, a note: prose and poetry I wrote to what I loathe; every word I chose a potent seed of grief I sowed. Sturdy oak's branches, limbs, and stoic bones turning into woes of a weeping willow's roots overgrown and exposed. Grain of timber groans, bends and bows in billowing wind blown; a coat of leaves in ribbons, clothes, cloaking grove and hanging rope below; around my neck, coiled and closed, asphyxiating, chokes. Ungasping, thrashing throes, no breath can flow, slowly losing hope; devoted to an unspoken oath, towing this floating ghost and shadow of an ego dangling alone on threadbare throne, only home I've ever known. So what, to this world, do i still owe and why can't I just let go? Andrew Crawford ©️ 2024