A Different Turn

All the emotions I’ve glorified look to me
Like the stem of a drying tree with rotting roots.
My prying conscience smells the irregularity
And my hope every morning looks out for shoots
Green is graying: this is death, not growing
The dim is preying: this is falling not flowing

The water table was lowering; it was imminent
And the sun was beating us down, drying our leaves
Turn after turn in a maze where fatigue grows prominent
As we yawn, sigh, sneeze and choke, hope barely cleaves.
Just when we are about to fall to the ground, weary and craven
We are at the threshold of seventh heaven