Slowly, they tell me,
my dark-bark worries grow umbrella-like 
not unlike dragon blood trees that shade
the elephantine deserts of my insecurities. 
Calm, calm—then:
     flames climb up wooden ivory towers
          in a flash, intensely, 
               and then all burnt out.
After the ashes smolder,
and the forest of my sensoria 
turns to dragon blood tears,
bodies labor motionless for hours,
     sometimes days,
          even lifetimes,
               licking at the red dead resin.
Like a hellscape of lost desires,
each step I take through my own ruins
rocks me back and forward in time,
     the rants and unbridled shouts,
          the desire to lie still,
               and then a slow burn beginning anew.
With each leaf falling like ashen rain,
a bit more bark also falls away:
     those jittery, social insects invade like
          boring beetles and devour me with banality,
               even while my birdline blood heals 
their own meted insect bites.