Herbology In Repose

What sound makes the crows caw
with delight at the sunset?
The irresistible tapping of claw
on wood echoes without judgment.
Nirvana indefinitely rolling it's misty planes
along the dead shores of nowhere.
Oh my, this is paradise for fools.

Coldly, I sit
Little urchin with hedgehog hair
with those who love one another
and display it so casually.

The fumes of cider wretch
my eyelids shut. Poisonous gas
passed from lip to lip like a
insane disease.

Th air caressing my feet and hair
all askew, making me look as morally
indecent as the others.

I am not of their race. I pick up my
bag and run
into the Forest of Mirrors.

I sit on the edge, terrified
of each squeak and howl
and each heavy sob that
I do not recognize.

To be a tree, I feel it's mirth
as it watches the human passers-by.
It grins with time, it's roots deep as
the crust of the Earth and aged
by air, sea and land.

Deep grooves show the passages
of a distant island.
I want to be it.

Yet at every turn of my head, I see
the sudden flash of too pink skin,
of soft, damned hair.
Even in my day-dreams I cannot reach it.

I wasn't sure which you'd check more often, INO or GSB, but I've posted a longer appreciation of this on INO.

It really is gorgeous, alive with imagery that you can almost feel at your fingers.

I love it
Good Job