Turn inward
You are not what you were
I look at familiar hands
and see cold stranger teeth
Who’s changed?
I am not a vine
green-tentacled, wide-leafed
turning and twisting my sticky-sapped leaves
to follow the glowing fire of your sun.
Who’s changed?
What if you too are the same
could I have walked wisdom with you
and not known?
Even the greenest plant
may nurture, tenderly, a festering sore.
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