Like a misshapen [gangrenous] bough,

A gnarled [sea-bone],

We bend to impossibility.

A killing moss

Ever present, ever growing

Ever green, slowly smothers

Each sense.

Pores weep life

The core dries, stiffens

And, involuntarily, cracks.

Obscurely felt;

Boldly endured occlusion.

Time blurs day, becomes day,

Becomes judgment.

What future [foresight]?

The present reckons.