Chimerical

One seed is opened;
the chimerical plainness of that art
is found within the wrinkles
of leaves that shed their skeletons.
Basked in Sunday air,
with wisps of sultry dirt,
the realization of how you belong
with that poetry
unveils itself among the leafless pages.
Alive with the gloomy bark,
and the adoration for the way
you would hate them like me,
is the fragile insect
looking for its lost skin.
And although yours is still intact,
I admire your indignation
and the way you make your place
among the ivory scene.