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It stands alone in mist..
Like a twist..
An abstract..
On a road that doesn’t twist..
Like a lone cyst..
Cant help but place finger prints..
On its lifeline..
That doesn’t seem to exist..
Clean your feet and have a seat..
On its exposed roots..
That’s where they sit..
The gods when they had their rest..
Now humans only shit and spit..
On seeded roots of art..
Now it marks all life force..
Off times fates and twists..
This lone tree..
Has more spirit..
Than your local priest..
How dare you spit..
On the tree that built your priest..
Knowing no spirit..
Has shit on it..
Its shade that covers your feet..
The mother tit..
That only fits..
The literal art of all twisted feet..
Can you..
See it??
Standing like a fist..
In all the mist..

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