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Dead Tree 

As if there were no more directions.

Each year from the main shaft bent

And bloomed in various genuflections

Towards what must have seemed

Unending perusals: compliance, defiance.

How many different levels, directed and dreamed?

How many different gropings, restings,

Plungings and undaunted thrustings; until,

Rent in half by its own opposite questings,

And in ignorance of any rooted limitations,

Or the finite universe beyond each massive,

Groaning tendril, it tires: There are no extenuations

Save through regeneration.

  • A poem by Christopher Hensley.

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