5.11

To hold up the sky, we built a tower of weeds. It was our hearts we used as counterfeit seeds: they, over-anxious, well-shaped, grew.

My tendrils are coronary, my shoots are veins. The pulse of life in me is flame: all-consuming, all-defeating (binary, opposite, confederate pain). Two states of matter together obscene, a destruction complete by inveterate green-growth more abundant than anyone's need. Harken yourself to the turbulent sky. That's the sound of a worldy sigh. It creaks a melody, sings fear, keens. How can you claim to know what it means? Elaborate towers of herbicent fuel, exceeding destruction and winning the duel, a thousand-year fire purposely cruel, stripping the edifice exposing a fool: I am the man who stokes and who grows. It is my soul, friend, that you'll never know: I, enchanted, scar-studded, grow.

Edit 1 Oct 2017:
I noticed a violent typo in the last line that I don't understand. I have written this poem in a book, on shoes, repeated it a hundred times. How did I not notice it until now? It loses the slapping punch at the end, without.
Before:
"I, enchanted, scar-studded, slow."