In the Dead of Night | Mark Andrew Heathcote
I’m an oak with rings ingrain
My heart is a woodcut carving
My soul a gnarled wooden cane
No longer prevents my falling.
I’m a mountain-pine-forest
A field of flattened wheat:
A no-man’s-land, a gauntlet
Thrown, down in beseech
Of-war, of-madness or friendship
Take your pick; I am ready, for all.
I have sharpened and whetted,
Sheaved my blade; heeding its call.
I have vanquished-my-enemies
One and all to see them lonesome fall
I have rewritten they’re own parodies.
In my turn stood, equally tall.
I have ignited into blossom,
And unfurled to catch sight
Every flower my breath can bosom
Hold to itself in the dead of night.
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