The Dreaming Tree

In those situations, where each step is harder and harder
In those places, where the dreaming tree is farther and farther.
I hide between the roots and see the other void
The one of empty, green leaves and their gray smoke.

This fork in my head, with its dry, split ends
Creates fissures in my brain, divides my body by its threads
Step onto the pavement, ready for my tour guide
Welcome to your field of mercenaries. Which side are you on?

Going down the path, discerning through the blackness.
Running my eyes through the man, noticing the mounting hollowness in his body.
Everyone’s gold skin seems to peel off into neat little rectangles.
Enthusiasm unbound just to be one step ahead. one cent ahead. 
Did you know? This money was grown from trees of blood?

No. That was not known. But neither was this doomed Choice. 
I look toward the long bank, across the deep river,
And past this canyon I see only bottomless blackness and holes,
And the sound of echoes, which point me in no direction.


Aaron Small