Lying to my Mind

still

while acorns & oak leaves relented to gravity,

as did my will.

I studied the same pages

expecting changes

none but seasons

came.

In stages,

my fronds unfurled—

the uncoiling hurt.

Inert

from a stagnant mound,

a security of being

rooted, unfound,

polluting my purpose.

Seedlings suffocated upon braving the surface.

Winds bent backwards to navigate the tides;

I cried,

and dutifully lied

to my mind.

As light

desiccated

the muck and memoirs

poisoning my might,

I surrendered to the sun.

I chose to write.