#nottolkien

In this empty head,

As if pieces of me were dropped

Along the path I had tread.

I wondered what was in there

Before I sought a cure,

Before I settled on the solution,

And wanted nothing more.

Here I am talking about myself,

Words reverberating against my bones.

My hollow frame never feeling filled,

As if I am travelling between homes.

What would I give to feel whole again?

A selfish question at its core.

What would I give to stop these shaking bones?

Everything, and more.

Lungs on the floor,

I left my kidneys downstairs.

For anyone who cares.

I don’t know where my spleen is,

It’s almost out anyway.

My brain I think I remember,

At least in its original form.

Perhaps all this blood isn’t from me,

Perhaps it came from the crowd.

But I forgot that nobody’s around me,

And that it was just a shroud,

I still have one thing I can cling to,

Or well, it clings onto me.

And that is the guilt I suffer,

And sometimes it makes poetry.

Ender leaving Alai for promotion, Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card

Overreaching a fertile yield,

And yet this tree does not grow,

And its fruit is often dark and low,

Its bark is strong, its roots are deep,

And the leaves are very sourly leaved,

While the apples it grows, the fruit from it,

Is sour, bitter, even deadly to a child,

Why is this tree like this? Where did its malice come from?

Why would the bark of a tree command anything but God?

Perhaps this tree knows about its past,

Perhaps it knows about a vixen that last,

Wrought the tree with fear and flame,

And maybe this is how the tree became,

Perhaps this tree will never grow another fruit,

That can be edible by humankind or lover’s conduit,

“Eat them” he says urgently, on a first encounter,

“I need you to try them,” but she hesitates, “The apple you ate?”

“Yes of course” the man replies, “Don’t you love me?”

She bites the apple, and is overcome by darkness,

Because it is over, and the tree is still standing.

A blackened tree stands in its field,

Overreaching a rotten yield.