Wood curves around my spine
the knots in my back tie me up
into this brittle ringed museum
that have my existence on a stand.
Cold, harsh, lighting in this soft, warm place
the contrast meet, collecting power on instant
storming onto my branches and roots
I greet strength and I grow
branches touching clear walls
My automatic tendencies uncoil me
into long lengths of reality
so pure that I am exhausted
at the beginning of the day.
I am filled, I am stilled
I am in a glass case.