Trees of my Youth

Anti-poetic streams of consciousness; are they what cut through the rosaries on the second and third floor? Or am I just indebted to the consternations of another - lesser and more devoid - that moves through chaotic waters as though it were her home? Anew, afresh and I afraid of saying what needed to be said. For it would find a way or another, there would be a path beyond it, and there would be a set of requirements laid out before me should I... lest I fall, lest I see the error of my way and devolve into criticism and nonsense of the senses and the bitter resolve, quiet resolution to end the terror in my heart and to face with great anger the beholders of the seven flame, the three-quarters of my known self and the re-membered and articulated foes of my youth.

Coming to and fro through the trees of my youth.