I grow ever towards the useless tree.

Gnarled and twisted, ignored there as carpenters pass the road alongside me. “What is the point of that tree?” they might ask sitting within in my shadow.

I sigh with the winds. Grow sunwise. Reach outward. Deepen.

The stones may know my use. As will the wind. Bird will have a place to talk and shit from.

My words are like leaves in the autumn, cast to the ground and left rot into soil.

Perhaps mycelium will know what use my leaves might be.

Stumble drunk, a fool’s path ahead, a fool’s path behind, reality roots grabbing at fumble feet in the steady rains. Falling phantom, fading frail for the light of new dawns rising — what jokes so many I have become, they jest.

Unable to disagree, I laugh with crows as I grow closer to water ways.

You see: even pain can amuse with eyes set scattered and unfocused. So, seek fog and sojourn; give to cataract eyes.

I seek to hitch a ride with sticks riding rain rivulets from forest floor to river as they carry me carry me home.

Crickets fiddle dirges for nightfall.