This paper was paste
this paste was a tree
a paper, a poem, a breath.
A breath stolen by greed
The greed of individual words,
sap of meaning and need.
A letter, a leaf, a finger,
tearing at the root of a word
angry branches in the night
voicing individual words.
And words have become swords and axes
sharp, a belly full of fungi and weed.
Words were the path and the limbs,
the forest fires.
A pause. A gust of wind.
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