Felling

Silken saturated, honey hued
A soaking rain tempered bark
Peeling in plates, in sawtoothed armor
I adorn my body, sweat and lichen, built for war
Green sunlit youth, a weighted scent
Withers, steel to flesh
A rhythm in rush, in crash, and the howling of man
The rope wound about my fist
Felling, and the flight of song in maple keys
Death ascends, culling leaves by their wind-form
There's a smell it brings, an assault on the nature green life Springs:
Pitch flies, plump with waste
Their buzz festering in echo against dank sills and minerals
Humid carcass sugars and oily fibers,
A nest of knotted angular legs, and soiled wings,
Self-righteous poseurs of putrefaction, descendants of the mire

E.A. O'Connell