Wormwood

If a am a tree I am dead

Dried-up wormwood,

Eaten through 

With homegrown lies—

A dirty dearth of earthly material.

Burn through me;

Cut me down.

Grow your fresh green shoot

Up through my roots

Reengineer ancestry

And plant me by the stream

That feeds the boughs which 

Blossom in the eons.

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