I have a forest growing inside of me.
Wild and filthy, at times, overgrown with weeds and climbers
and creepers and dirty velvety moss,
washed by the sun sometimes, yellow and sparkling and
dazzling and razzmatazzy,
caressed by the rain,
dripping wet, drenched or drizzled if you wish.
also leafless and whitewashed by soft downy flakes of the
sky.
Nothing is allowed in there.
Only, occasionally, indulgently, a worldly seed falls
mistakenly and grows into a tender sapling,
Full of wide-eyed curiosity and menace,
to be devoured by the deadly evil creature-eaters growing
daily in that untiring jungle of mine.
Remotely interesting point of this stupid poem: the trees
have no roots, nor are they floating.
They deeply grow, side by side,
often clinging to each other like snakes.
They grow roots: whenever
they can, wherever they can, so that
no permanent immovable immutable fixture called idea or
opinion can bind me
in shackles of love or hate.
the forest grows within, so that my outer garden,
beautifully adorned by this world’s manicured trees,
cannot invade and consume and destroy the untamed virginity so
threatening
because it’s flexible and accepting.
