The Barren Woods
When did, in the late spring of my years,
the forest become so barren?
Wandering, I can only find trees,
with roots watered in booze
and twigs of glass
that whisper in the dark.
The trees crumble to ash when I touch them,
sweeping away in the wind.
The ash burns when it blows in my face,
bringing tears to my eyes that are black when they roll down my cheeks.