Leave it to Cleaver

I rest upon the havoc carried

in the wake of gloom, floating

forward soft above the surface of

swaying blades and silken spider hammocks.

I struggle for root, cleaving to the luck

of windbreak crashing earth.

but fate will leave me rolling

down the glimmered trickle of flooded

need, carrying me ocean,

to join the great seedling cemetery

and when I cross the salted threshold

I'll feel the downward thrust of fortunes cleaver

sever my chances of bloom, never to be

plucked by love, never to tickle the dainty breath

of damsels adored in cluster made of petals

worthy to die and dissipate and waft for queens.