The man no longer remains,
The one who planted the seed of doubt and deceit
Deep into the soil
So ready and fertile,
Of the minds of other men
Who denied the crisis we have faced and lost.
He is a ghost, like the colour green once was.
But I am reborn, re-rooted, growing both down and up,
Perfectly balanced, from the core to the trailing clouds above.
My limbs, now numerous
And long and gnarled
Grow towards the sun, fringed in that ghostly tinge
I speak beauty as I open my mouth.
I speak poison as I breathe out; flowers of red –
Flames like hibiscus and the phantom forests that could only burn.
Tendrils leave me, twist and writhe
In pleasure because the man is a ghost
And I am alive.